THoma.s  B  Mcyhcr  « 


POEMS 


ROBERT    BUCHANAN 


BOSTON 

ROBERTS      BROTHERS 
1866 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS  :  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co., 

CAMBRIDGE. 


CONTENTS. 


UNDERTONES. 

POET'S  PROLOGUE.  PAGE 
To  DAVID  IN  HEAVEN       .        .        .        .        .3 

THE  UNDERTONES. 

I.    PROTEUS 15 

II.    ADES,  KING  OF  HELL     ....  20 

III.  PAN 32 

IV.  THE  NAIAD 45 

V.    THE  SATYR 47 

VI.    VENUS  ON  THE  SUN-CAR        ...  57 

VII.    SELENE  THE  MOON 60 

VIII.    IRIS  THE  RAINBOW         ....  63 

IX.    ORPHEUS  THE  MUSICIAN     ....  65 

X.    POLYPHEME'S  PASSION     ....  69 

XL    PENELOPE    .        .        .        .        .        .  93 

XII.    SAPPHO 98 

XIII.  THE  SIREN 100 

XIV.  A  VOICE  FROM  ACADEME  in 


M7G0060 


iv  CONTENTS. 

XV.    PYGMALION  THE  SCULPTOR. 

1.  SHADOW 113 

2.  THE  MARBLE  LIFE      .        .        .  114 

3.  THE  SIN 118 

4.  DEATH  IN  LIFE   ....  121 

5.  SHADOW 125 

XVI.    ANTONY  IN  ARMS        .        .        .        .  127 

XVII.    FINE  WEATHER  ON  THE  DIGENTIA. 

HORATIUS    COGITANDIBUS        .  .  .129 

XVIII.    FINE  WEATHER  BY  BALE. 

VIRGIL  TO  HORACE      .        . '      .        .142 

XIX.    THE  SWAN-SONG  OF  APOLLO      .        .  150 
POET'S  EPILOGUE. 

To  MARY  ON  EARTH 153 

IDYLS    AND    LEGENDS    OF    INVERBURN. 

PREAMBLE 161 

WILLIE  BAIRD 167 

LORD  RONALD'S  WIFE 181 

POET  ANDREW 186 

WHITE  LILY  OF  WEARDALE-HEAD  .        .        .        .201 

THE  ENGLISH  HUSWIFE'S  GOSSIP          .        .        .  208 

THE  FAERY  FOSTER-MOTHER 221 

THE  Two  BABES 224 

THE  GREEN  GNOME 250 

HUGH  SUTHERLAND'S  PANSIES      ....  253 


CONTENTS.  v 

THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  STEPMOTHER  ....  266 

THE  WIDOW  MYSIE 270 

THE  MINISTER  AND  THE  ELFIN       ....  279 

THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  LITTLE  FAY       .        .        .  282 

VILLAGE  VOICES 290 


A  LONDON  IDYL 299 

LANGLEY  LANE 309 


UNDERTONES 


POET'S    PROLOGUE. 


TO   DAVID    IN    HEAVEN. 


"  Quo  diversns  abis? " 

"  Quern  Di  diligunt,  adolescens  moritur.' 


T    O  !  the  slow  moon  roaming 
*—*  Thro'  fleecy  mists  of  gloaming, 

Furrowing  with  pearly  edge  the  jewel-powder'd  sky ! 
Lo,  the  bridge  moss-laden, 
Arch'd  like  foot  of  maiden, 

And  on  the  bridge,  in  silence,  looking  upward,  you  and  I ! 
Lo,  the  pleasant  season 
Of  reaping  and  of  mowing —  • 

The  round  still  moon  above,  — beneath,  the  river  dusk- 
ily flowing ! 

2. 

Violet-color'd  shadows, 
Blown  from  scented  meadows, 
Float,  o'er  us  to  the  pine- wood  dark  from  yonder  dim 

corn-ridge ; 
The  little  river  gushes 
Thro'  shady  sedge  and  rushes, 

And  gray  gnats  murmur  o'er  the  pools,  beneath  the 
mossy  bridge ;  — 


4  PROLOGUE. 

And  you  and  I  stand  darkly, 
O'er  the  keystone  leaning, 

And  watch  the  pale  mesmeric  moon,  in  the  time  of 
gleaners  and  gleaning. 

3- 

Do  I  dream,  I  wonder  ? 
As,  sitting  sadly  under 
A  lonely  roof  in  London,  thro'  the  grim  square  pane  I 

gaze  ? 

Here  of  you  I  ponder, 
In  a  dream,  and  yonder 
The  still  streets  seem  to  stir  and  breathe  beneath  the 

white  moon's  rays. 
By  the  vision  cherish'd, 
By  the  battle  braved, 

Do  I  but  dream  a  hopeless  dream,  in  the  city  that  slew 
you,  David  ? 

4- 

Is  it  fancy  also, 
That  the  light  which  falls  so  - 
Faintly  upon  the  stony  street  below  me  as  I  write, 
Near  tall  mountain  passes 
Thro'  churchyard  weeds  and  grasses, 
Barely  a  mower's  mile  away  from  that  small  bridge, 

to-night  ? 

And,  where  you  are  lying,  — 
Grass  and  flowers  above  you  — 

Is  mingled  with  your  sleeping  face,  as  calm  as  the 
hearts  that  love  you  ? 

5- 

Poet  gentle-hearted, 
Are  you  then  departed, 


TO  DA  VID  IN  HE  A  VEN.  5 

And  have  you  ceased  to  dream  the  dream  we  loved  of 

old  so  well  ? 

Has  the  deeply  cherish'd 
Aspiration  perish'd, 
And  are  you  happy,  David,  in  that  heaven  where  you 

dwell  ? 

Have  you  found  the  secret 
We,. so  wildly,  sought  for, 

And  is  your  soul  enswath'd,  at  last,  in  the  singing  robes 
you  fought  for  ? 


In  some  heaven  star-lighted, 

Are  you  now  united 
Unto  the  poet-spirits  that  you  loved,  of  English  race  ? 

Is  Chatterton  still  dreaming  ? 

And,  to  give  it  stately  seeming, 

Has  the  music  of  his  last  strong   song  passed  into 
Keats's  face  ? 

Is  Wordsworth  there  ?  and  Spenser  ? 

Beyond  the  grave's  black  portals, 

Can  the  grand  eye  of  Milton  see  the  glory  he  sang  to 
mortals  ? 

7- 

You  at  least  could  teach  me, 
Could  your  dear  voice  reach  me, 
Where  I  sit  and  copy  out  for  men  my  sours  strange 

speech, 

Whether  it  be  bootless, 
Profitless,  and  fruitless, — 

The  weary  aching  upward  strife  to  heights  we  cannot 
reach, 


6  PROLOGUE. 

The  fame  we  seek  in  sorrow, 
The  agony  we  forego  not, 

The  haunting  singing  sense  that  makes  us  climb  — 
whither  we  know  not. 

8. 

Must  it  last  forever, 
The  passionate  endeavor, 
Ay,  have  ye,  there  in  heaven,  hearts  to  throb  and  still 

aspire  ? 

In  the  life  you  know  now, 
Render'd  white  as  snow  now, 
Do  fresher  glory-heights  arise,  and  beckon  higher  — 

higher  ? 

Are  you  dreaming,  dreaming, 
Is  your  soul  still  roaming, 

Still  gazing  upward  as  we  gazed,  of  old  in  the  autumn 
gloaming  ? 

9- 

Lo,  the  book  I  hold  here, 

In  the  city  cold  here  ! 
I  hold  it  with  a  gentle  hand  and  love  it  as  I  may ; 

Lo,  the  weary  moments  ! 

Lo,  the  icy  comments  ! 

And  lo,  false  Fortune's  knife  of  gold  swift-lifted  up  to 
slay! 

Has  the  strife  no  ending  ? 

Has  the  song  no  meaning  ? 
Linger  I,  idle    as  of  old,  while  men   are   reaping  or 


10. 

Upward  my  face  I  turn  to  you, 
I  long  for  you,  I  yearn  to  you, 


TO  DA  VI D   IN  HE  A  VEN.  ^ 

The  spectral  vision  trances  me  to  utt'rance  wild  and 

weak  ; 

It  is  not  that  I  mourn  you, 
(  To  mourn  you  were  to  scorn  you, 
For  you  are  one  step  nearer  to  the  beauty  singers  seek. 
But  I  want,  and  cannot  see  you, 
I  seek  and  cannot  find  you, 

And,  see  !   I  touch  the  book  of  songs  you  tenderly  left 
behind  you ! 

II. 

Ay,  me  !  I  bend  above  it, 
With  tearful  eyes,  and  love  it, 

With  tender  hand  I  touch  the  leaves,  but  cannot  find 

you  there  ! 

Mine  eyes  are  haunted  only 
By  that  gloaming  sweetly  lonely, 

The  shadows  on  the  mossy  bridge,  the  glamour  in  the  air ! 
I  touch  the  leaves,  and  only 
See  the  glory  they  retain  not,  — 

The  moon  that  is  a  lamp  to  Hope,  who  glorifies  what 
we  gain  not ! 

12. 

The  aching  and  the  yearning, 
The  hollow  undiscerning, 
Uplooking  want   I    still  retain,  darken   the   leaves   I 

touch,  — 

Pale  promise,  with  much  sweetness 
Solemnizing  incompleteness, 
But  ah,  you  knew  so  little  then,  —  and  now  you  know 

so  much ! 

By  the  vision  cherish'd, 
By  the  battle  bravdd, 

Have  you,  in  heaven,  shamed  the  song,  by  a  loftier  mu- 
sic, David  ? 


PROLOGUE. 


I,  who  loved  and  knew  you, 
In  the  city  that  slew  you, 
Still  hunger  on,  and  thirst,  and  climb,  proud-hearted 

and  alone  : 

Serpent-fears  enfold  me, 
Siren-visions  hold  me, 
And,  like  a  wave,  I  gather  strength,  and  gathering 

strength,  I  moan  ; 
Yea,  the  pale  moon  beckons, 
Still  I  follow,  aching, 

And  gather  strength,  only  to  make  a  louder  moan,  in 
breaking  ! 

14. 

Tho'  the  world  could  turn  from  you, 
This,  at  least,  I  learn  from  you  : 
Beauty  and  Truth,  tho'  never  found,  are  worthy  to  be 

sought, 

The  singer,  upward-springing, 
Is  grander  than  his  singing, 
And  tranquil  self-sufficing  joy  illumes   the   dark  of 

thought. 

This,  at  least,  you  teach  me, 
In  a  revelation  : 

That  gods  still  snatch,  as  worthy  death,  the  soul  in  its 
aspiration. 


And  I  think,  as  you  thought, 
Poesy  and  Truth  ought 

Never  to  lie  silent  in  the  singer's  heart  on  earth  ; 
Tho'  they  be  discarded, 
Slighted,  unrewarded,  — 


TO  DAVID   TN  HEAVEN.  9 

Tho',    unto    vulgar    seeming,    they    appear    of   little 

worth,  — 

Yet  tender  brother-singers, 
Young  or  not  yet  born  to  us, 

May  seek  there,  for  the  singer's  sake,  that  love  which 
sweeteneth  scorn  to  us  ! 


16. 

While  I  sit  in  silence, 
Comes  from  mile  on  mile  hence, 

From  English  Keats's  Roman  grave,  a  voice  that  sweet- 
ens toil ! 

Think  you,  no  fond  creatures 
Draw  comfort  from  the  features 
Of  Chatterton,  pale  Phaethon,  hurled  down  to  sunless 

soil  ? 

Scorch'd  with  sunlight  lying, 
Eyes  of  sunlight  hollow, 

But,  see !    upon  the  lips  a  gleam  of  the  chrism  of 
Apollo ! 

17- 

Noble  thought  produces 

Noble  ends  and  uses, 
Noble  hopes  are  part  of  Hope  wherever  she  may  be, 

Noble  thought  enhances 

Life  and  all  its  chances, 

And  noble  self  is  noble  song,  —  all  this  I  learn  from 
thee ! 

And  I  learn,  moreover, 

'Mid  the  city's  strife  too, 

That  such  faint  song  as  sweetens  Death  can  sweeten 
the  singer's  life  too  ! 


io  PROLOGUE. 

1 8. 

Lo,  my  Book !  —  I  hold  it 
In  weary  hands,  and  fold  it 
Unto  my  heart,  if  only  as  a  token  I  aspire  ; 
And,  by  song's  assistance, 
Unto  your  dim  distance, 
My  soul  uplifted  is  on  wings,  and  beckon'd  higher, 

nigher. 

By  the  sweeter  wisdom 
You  return  unspeaking, 

Though  endless,  hopeless,  be  the  search,  we  exalt  our 
souls  in  seeking. 

19. 

Higher,  yet,  and  higher, 
Ever  nigher,  ever  nigher. 

To  the  glory  we  conceive  not,  let  us  toil  and  strive  and 

strain  !  — 

The  agonized  yearning, 
The  imploring  and  the  burning, 

Grown  awfuller,  intenser,  at  each  vista  we  attain, 
And  clearer,  brighter,  growing, 
Up  the  gulfs  of  heaven  wander, 

Higher,  higher  yet,  and  higher,   to  the  Mystery  we 
ponder ! 

20. 

Yea,  higher  yet,  and  higher, 
Ever  nigher,  ever  nigher, 
While  men  grow  small  by  stooping  and  the  reaper  piles 

the  grain,  — 
Can  it  then  be  bootless, 
Profitless  and  fruitless, 


TO  DAVID  IN  HEAVEN.  11 

The  weary  aching  upward  search  for  what  we  never 

gain? 

Is  there  not  awaiting 
Rest  and  golden  weather, 

Where,  passionately  purified,   the   singers  may  meet 
together  ? 

21. 

Up  !  higher  yet,  and  higher, 
Ever  nigher,  ever  nigher, 
Thro'  voids  that  Milton  and  the  rest  beat  still  with 

seraph-wings  ; 

Out  thro'  the  great  gate  creeping 
Where  God  hath  put  his  sleeping  — 
A  dewy  cloud  detaining  not  the  soul  that  soars  and 

sings, 

Up  !  higher  yet,  and  higher, 
Fainting  nor  retreating, 

Beyond  the  sun,  beyond  the  stars,  to  the  far  bright 
realm  of  meeting  ! 

22. 

O  Mystery !  O  Passion ! 
To  sit  on  earth,  and  fashion, 
What  floods  of  music  visibled   may  fill  that  fancied 

place ! 

To  think,  the  least  that  singeth, 
Aspireth  and  upspringeth, 
May  weep  glad  tears  on  Keats's  breast  and  look  in 

Milton's  face ! 

When  human  power  and  failure 
Are  equalized  forever, 

And  the  one  great  Light  that  haloes  all  is  the  passion- 
ate bright  endeavor ! 


(2  PROLOGUE. 

23- 

But  ah,  that  pale  moon  roaming 
Thro'  fleecy  mists  of  gloaming, 
Furrowing  with  pearly  edge  the  jewel-powder'd  sky, 
And  ah,  the  days  departed 
With  your  friendship  gentle-hearted, 
And  ah,  the  dream  we  dreamt  that  night,  together,  you 

and  II 

Is  it  fashion'd  wisely, 
To  help  us  or  to  blind  us, 

That  at  each  height  we  gain  we  turn,  and  behold  a 
heaven  behind  us  ? 


THE    UNDERTONES. 


Thou  Fame  1  who  makest  of  the  singer's  Life, 

Faint  with  the  sweetness  of  its  own  desire, 

A  statue  of  Narcissus,  still  and  fair 

Forevermore,  and  bending  evermore 

Over  its  beauteous  image  mirrored 

In  the  swift  current  of  our  human  days, 

Eternally  in  act  to  clasp  and  kiss  1 

O  Fame,  teach  thou  this  flesh  and  blood  to  love 

Some  beauteous  counterpart,  and  while  it  bends, 

Tremulously  gazing  on  the  image,  blow 

Thy  trump  aloud,  and  freeze  it  into  stone  I 


THE    UNDERTONES. 

I. 

PROTEUS; 

OR,    A    PRELUDE. 
I. 

T  NTO  the  living  elements  of  things 

•*-     I,  Proteus,  mingle,  seeking  strange  disguise  : 

I  track  the  Sun-god  on  an  eagle's  wings, 

Or  look  at  horror  thro'  a  murderer's  eyes, 
In  shape  of  horne'd  beast  my  shadow  glides 
Among  broad-leave'd  flowers  that  blow  'neath  Afric  tides. 

2. 
Lo !  I  was  stirring  in  the  leaves  that  shaded 

The  Garden  where  the  Man  and  Woman  smiled : 
I  saw  them  later,  raimentless,  degraded, 

The  apple  sour  upon  their  tongues  ;  beguiled 
By  the  sweet  wildness  of  the  Woman's  tears, 

I  dropt  in  dew  upon  her  lips,  and  stole 

Under  her  heart,  a  stirring  human  Soul, 
The  blood  within  her  tingling  in  mine  ears  ; 
And  as  I  lay,  I  heard  a  voice  that  cried 

"  Lo,  Proteus,  the  unborn,  shall  wake  to  be 
Heir  of  the  Woman's  sorrow,  yet  a  guide 


1 6  THE    UNDERTONES. 

Conducting  back  to  immortality  — 
The  spirit  of  the  leaves  of  Paradise 
Shall  lift  him  upward,  to  aspire  and  rise  !  " 
Then  sudden,  I  was  conscious  that  I  lay 
Under  a  heaven  that  gleam'd  afar  away  :  — 

I  heard  the  Man  and  Woman  weeping, 

The  green  leaves  rustling,  and  the  Serpent  creep- 
ing* 

The  roar  of  beasts,  the  song  of  birds,  the  chime 
Of  elements  in  sudden  strife  sublime, 

And  overhead  I  saw  the  starry  Tree, 

Eternity, 
Put  forth  the  blossom  Time. 


3- 

A  wind  of  ancient  prophecy  swept  down, 

And  wither'd  up  my  beauty  —  where  I  lay 
On  Paris'  bosom,  in  the  Trojan  town ; 

Troy  vanish'd,  and  I  wander'd  far  away,  — 
Till,  lying  on  a  Virgin's  breast,  I  gazed 

Thro'  infant  eyes,  and  saw,  as  in  a  dream, 
The  great  god  Pan  whom  I  had  raised  and  praised, 

Float  huge,  unsinew'd,  down  a  mighty  stream, 
With  leaves  and  lilies  heap'd  about  his  head, 

And  a  weird  music  hemming  him  around, 
While,  dropping  from  his  nerveless  fingers  dead, 

A  brazen  sceptre  plunged  with  hollow  sound  : 
A  trackless  Ocean  wrinkling  tempest-wing'd 
Open'd  its  darkness  for  the  clay  unking'd : 
Moreover,  as  he  floated  on  at  rest, 

With  lips  that  flutter'd  still  in  act  to  speak, 
An  eagle,  swooping  down  upon  his  breast, 

Pick'd  at  his  songless  lips  with  golden  beak. 


PROTEUS.  17 

4- 
There  was  a  sound  of  fear  and  lamentation, 

The  forests  wail'd,  the  stars  and  moon  grew  pale, 
The  air  grew  cloudy  with  the  desolation 

Of  gods  that  fell  from  realmless  thrones  like  hail ; 
But  as  I  gazed,  the  great  god  Pan  awaking, 

Lookt  in  the  Infant's  happy  eyes  and  smiled, 
And  smiling  died  ;  and  like  a  sunbeam  breaking 

From  greenwood  olden,  rose  a  presence  mild 
In  exhalation  from  the  clay,  and  stole 
Around  the  Infant  in  an  auriole  — 

When,  gladden'd  by  the  glory  of  the  child, 
Dawn  gleam'd  from  p'ole  to  pole. 


5- 

And,  lo  !  a  shape  with  pallid  smile  divine 

Wander'd  in  Palestine ; 
And  Adam's  might  was  stately  in  his  eyes, 

And  Eve's  wan  sweetness  glimmer'd  on  his  cheek, 

And  when  he  open'd  heavenly  lips  to  speak, 
I  heard,  disturbing  Pilate  into  sighs, 
The  rustle  of  those  leaves  in  Paradise  ! 
Then  all  was  dark,  the  earth,  and  air,  and  sky, 

The  sky  was  troubled  and  the  earth  was  shaken, 
Beasts  shriek'd,  men  shouted,  and  there  came  a  cry,  - 

"  My  God,  I  am  forsaken  !  " 
But  even  then,  I  smiled  amid  my  tears, 
And  saw  in  vision,  down  the  future  years, 
•What  time  the  cry  still  rung  in  heaven's  dark  dome, 

The  likeness  of  his  smile  ineffable, 

Serenely  dwell 
On  Raphael,  sunn'd  by  popes  and  kings  at  Rome, 

And  Dante,  singing  in  his  Tuscan  cell ! 


i8  THE   UNDERTONES. 


But  sudden,  from  the  vapors  of  the  north, 
Ice-bearded,  snowy-visaged,  Strength  burst  forth, 

Brandishing  arms  in  death  : 
'T  was  Ades,  frighted  from  his  seat  in  Hell 
By  that  pale  smile  of  peace  ineffable, 

That  with  a  sunny  life-producing  breath, 
Wreathed  summer  round  the  foreheads  of  the  Dead, 

And  troubled  Hell's  weird  silence  into  joy. 
And  with  a  voice  that  rent  the  pole  he  said, 

"  Lo,  I  am  Thor,  the  mighty  to  destroy  !  " 
The  accents  ran  to  water  on  his  mouth, 

The  pole  was  kindled  to  a  fiery  glow, 
A  breath  of  summer  floated  from  the  south 

And  melted  him  like  snow. 

7- 

Yea  thus,  thro'  change  on  change, 
Haunted  forever  by  the  leafy  sound 
That  sigh'd  the  Woman  and  the  Man  around, 

I,  Proteus,  range. 
A  weary  quest,  a  power  to  climb  and  soar, 

Yet  never  quit  life's  bitterness  and  starkness, 


The  day  behind  me  and  the  night  before, 

This  is  my  task  forevermore  ! 

I  am  the  shadow  of  the  inspiration 

Breath'd  on  the  Man  ;  I  am  the  sense  alone, 
That,  generation  upon  generation, 

Empowers  the  sinful  Woman  to  atone 
By  giving  angels  to  the  grave  and  weeping 

Because  she  knows  not  whither  they  are  going  ; 
I  am  the  strife  awake,  the  terror  sleeping, 

The  sorrow  ever  ebbing,  ever  flowing. 


PROTEUS.  19 

Mine  are  the  mighty  names  of  power  and  worth, 

The  seekers  of  the  vision  that  hath  fled, 
I  bear  the  Infant's  smile  about  the  earth, 

And  put  the  Cross  on  the  aspirant's  head, 
I  am  the  peace  on  holy  men  who  die, 

I  waft  as*  sacrifice  their  fleeting  breath, — 
I  am  the  change  that  is  not  change,  for  I 

Am  deathless,  being  DEATH. 

8. 

For,  evermore  I  grow 

Wiser,  with  humbler  power  to  feel  and  know  ; 
For,  in  the  end  I,  Proteus,  shall  cast 

All  wondrous  shapes  aside  but  one  alone, 
And  stand  (while  round  about  me  in  the  Vast 

Earth,  Sun,  Stars,  Moon,  as  snow-flakes  melt  at  last,) 
A  Skeleton  that,  shadow'd  by  the  Tree, 

Eternity, 
Holds  in  his  hands  the  blossom  Time  full  blown, 

And  kneels  before  a  Throne. 


20  THE   UNDERTONES. 


ADES,    KING    OF    HELL. 

i. 

T)  ENEATH  the  caves  where  sunless  loam 
-L'  Grows  dim  and  reddens  into  gold  ; 

'Neath  the  fat  earth-seams,  where  the  cold 
Rains  thicken  to  the  flowery  foam 

Fringing  blue  streams  in  summer  zones  ; 
Beneath  the  spheres  where  dead  men's  bones 
Change  darkly  thro'  slow  centuries  to  marl  and  glitter- 
ing stones ;  — 

2. 
Orb'd  in  that  rayless  realm,  alone, 

Far  from  the  realm  of  sun  and  shower, 
A  palpable  god  with  godlike  power, 
I,  Ades,  dwelt  upon  a  throne  ; 

Much  darkness  did  my  eyelids  tire ; 
But  thro'  my  veins  the  hid  Sun's  fire 
Communicated  impulse,  hope,  thought,  passion,  and 
desire. 

3- 
Eternities  of  lonely  reign, 

Full  of  faint  dreams  of  day  and  night 
And  the  white  glamour  of  starry  light, 
Oppress'd  my  patience  into  pain  ; 
Upward  I  sent  a  voice  of  prayer 
That  made  a  horror  in  the  air : 

And  "  Ades  craves  a  queen,  O  Zeus  ! "  shook  heaven 
unaware. 


ADES,  KING  OF  HELL.  21 

4- 

The  gods  stopt  short  in  full  carouse, 
And  listen'd.     On  the  streams  of  Hell 
The  whole  effulgent  conclave  fell 
As  in  a  glass.     With  soft-arch'd  brows, 
And  wings  of  dewy-tinctured  dye, 
Moist  Iris  listen'd  blushingly ; 

And  Herd  sought  the  soul  of  Zeus  with  coldly  eager 
eye. 

5- 

Then  the  clear  hyaline  grew  cold 
And  dim  before  the  Father's  face  ; 
Gray  meditation  clothed  the  place  ; 
And  rising  up  Zeus  cried,  "  Behold  !  "  — 
And  on  Olumpos'  crystal  wall 
A  kingly  phantom  cloudy  and  tall, 
Throned,  sceptred,  crown'd,  was  darkly  apparition'd  at 
the  call. 

6. 

"  Behold  him  !  "  Zeus  the  Father  cried, 
With  voice  that  shook  my  throne  forlorn : 
Pale  Hermes  curl'd  his  lips  in  scorn, 
And  Iris  drew  her  bow  aside  ; 
Artemis  paled  and  did  not  speak ; 
Sheer  fear  flush'd  Aphrodite's  cheek  ; 
And  only  owl-eyed  Pallas  look'd  with  pitying  smile  and 
meek. 

7- 

A  weary  night  thro'  earth  and  air 
The  shadow  of  my  longing  spread, 
And  not  a  goddess  answered. 


22  THE   UNDERTONES. 

All  nature  darken'd  at  my  prayer  ; 

Which  darkness  earth  and  air  did  shroud, 
No  star  rain'd  light,  but,  pale  and  proud, 
With  blue-edged  sickle  Artemis  cut  her  slow  path  thro' 
cloud. 


And  when  the  weary  dark  was  done, 
Beyond  my  sphere  of  realm  upsprang, 
With  smile  that  beam'd  and  harp  that  sang, 
Apollo  piloting  the  Sun  ; 

And  conscious  of  him  shining  o'er, 
I  watch'd  my  black  and  watery  floor 
Wherein  the  wondrous  upper-world  is  mirror'd  ever- 
more. 

9- 

When  lo,  there  murmur'd  on  my  brain, 
Like  sound  of  distant  waves,  a  sound 
That  did  my  godlike  sense  confound 
And  kiss'd  my  eyelids  down  in  pain ; 
And  far  above  I  heard  the  beat 
Of  musically  falling  feet, 

Hurl'd  by  the  echoes  of  the  earth  down  to  my  brazen 
seat. 

10. 
And  I  was  'ware  that  overhead 

Walk'd  one  whose  very  motion  sent 
A  sweet  immortal  wonderment 
Thro'  the  deep  dwellings  of  the  Dead, 
And  flush'd  the  seams  of  cavern  and  mine 
To  gleams  of  gold  and  diamond  shine, 
And  made  the  misty  dews'  shoot  up  to  kiss  her  feet 
divine. 


ADES,   KING   OF  HELL.  23 

II. 

By  Zeus,  the  beat  of  those  soft  feet 
Thrill'd  to  the  very  roots  of  Hell, 
Troubling  the  mournful  streams  that  fell 
Like  snakes  from  out  my  brazen  seat : 
Faint  music  reach'd  me  strange  and  slow, 
My  conscious  Throne  gleam'd  pale  as  snow, 
A   beauteous    vision    vaguely   fill'd    the   dusky*  glass 
below.  — 

12. 

When  I  beheld  in  that  dark  glass 
The  phantom  of  a  lonely  maid, 
Who  gather'd  flowers  in  a  green  glade 
Knee-deep  in  dewy  meadow-grass, 
And  on  a  riverside.     Behold, 
The  sun  that  robed  her  round  with  gold, 
Mirror'd  beneath  me  raylessly,  loom'd  white  and  round 
and  cold. 

13- 

Soft  yellow  hair  that  curl'd  and  clang 
Throbbed  to  her  feet  in  softest  showers, 
And  as  she  went  she  gather'd  flowers, 
And  as  she  gather'd  flowers  she  sang  : 
It  floated  down  my  sulphurous  eaves, 
That  melody  of  flowers  and  leaves, 
Of  vineyards,  gushing  purple  wines,  and  yellow  slanted 
sheaves. 

14. 
Darkling  I  mutter'd,  "  It  were  choice 

Proudly  to  throne  in  solemn  cheer 

So  fair  a  queen,  and  ever  to  hear 
Such  song  from  so  divine  a  voice  ! " 


24  THE   UNDERTONES. 

And  with  the  wish  I  upward  breathed 
A  mist  of  fire  that  swiftly  seethed 
Thro'  shuddering  earth-seams  overhead,  and  round  her 
warm  knees  wreathed. 


Whereon  the  caves  of  precious  stones 

•»   Grew  bright  as  moonlight  thrown  on  death, 

And  red  gold  brighten'd,  and  the  breath 
Drew  greenness  moist  from  fleshless  bones  ; 
And  every  cave  was  murmuring  : 
"  O  River,  cease  to  flow  and  sing, 
And  bear  the  tall  bride  on  thy  banks  to  the  footstool 
of  thy  king  !  " 

16. 

Then  writhed  the  roots  of  forest  trees 
In  tortuous  fear,  till  tremblingly 
Green  leaves  quaked  round  her.     A  sharp  cry 
Went  upward  from  the  Oreades  ; 

Low  murmurs  woke  in  bower  and  cave, 
With  diapason  in  the  wave  : 
The  River  eddied  darkly  round,  obeying  as  a  slave. 

17- 

Half  stooping  downward,  while  she  held 
A  flower  in  loosening  fingers  light  ; 
The  quick  pink  fading  from  the  white 
Upon  her  cheek  ;  with  eyes  that  welled 
Dark  pansy  thoughts  from  veins  that  dart 
Like  restless  snakes  round  the  honeyed  heart, 
And  balmy  breath  that  mildly  blew  her  rose-red  lips 
apart,— 


ADES,   KING   OF  HELL.  25 

1 8. 

She  listen'd  —  stately,  yet  dismay'd  ; 
And  dimly  conscious  of  some  change 
That  made  the  whispering  place  seem  strange 
And  awful,  far  from  human  aid ; 

And  as  the  moaning  Stream  grew  near, 
And  whirl'd  unto  her  with  eddies  clear, 
She  saw  my  shadow  in  his  waves  and  shrank  away  in 
fear. 

19. 

"  Small  River,  flowing  with  summer  sound, 
Strong  River,  solemn  Ades'  slave, 
Flow  unto  her  with  gentle  wave, 
And  make  an  isle,  and  hem  her  round." 
The  River,  sad  with  gentle  worth, 
Felt  backward  to  that  cave  of  earth, 
Where,  troubled  with  my  crimson  eyes,  he  shudder'd 
into  birth. 

20. 

Him  saw  she  trembling ;  but  unseen, 
Under  long  sedges  lily-strew'd, 
Round  creeping  -roots  of  underwood, 
Low  down  beneath  the  grasses  green 
Whereon  she  waited  wondering-eyed, 
My  servant  slid  with  stealthy  tide  :  — 
Then  like  a  fountain  bubbled  up  and  foam'd  on  either 
side. 

21. 

And  shrinking  back  she  gazed  in  fear 
On  his  wild  hair,  and  lo,  an  isle  — 
Around  whose  brim  waves  rose  the  while 

She  cried,  "  O  mother  Ceres,  hear  !  " 


26  THE    UNDERTONES. 

Then  sprang  she  wildly  to  and  fro, 
Wilder  than  rain  and  white  as  snow. 
"  O  honor'd  River,  grasp  thy  prize,  and  to  the  footstool 
flow !  " 

22. 

One  swift  sunbeam  with  sickly  flare 
On  white  arms  waving  high  did  gleam, 
What  time  she  shriek'd,  and  the  strong  Stream 
Leapt  up  and  grasp'd  her  by  the  hair. 
And  all  was  dark.     With  wild  heads  bow'd 
The  forests  murmur'd,  and  black  cloud 
Split  spumy  on  the  mountain-tops  with  fire  and  portent 
loud! 

23.  - 
Then  all  was  still  as  the  Abyss, 

Save  for  the  dark  and  bubbling  water. 
And  the  far  voice.     "  Bear  Ceres'  daughter 
Unto  the  kingly  feet  of  Dis  !  " 

Wherefore  I  rose  upon  my  throne, 
And  smote  my  kingdom's  roof  of  stone ; 
Earth  moan'd  to  her  deep  fiery  roots  —  Hell  answer'd 
with  a  groan. 

24. 

When  swiftly  waving  sulphurous  wings 
The  Darkness  brooded  down  in  fear 
To  listen.     I,  afar,  could  hear 
The  coming  River's  murmurings  ; 
My  god-like  eyes  with  flash  of  flame 
Peer'd  up  the  chasm.     As  if  in  shame 
Of  his  slave-deed,  darkly  and  slow,  my  trembling  ser- 
vant came. 


ADES,  KING   OF  HELL.  27 

25. 
The  gentleness  of  summer  light, 

This  Stream,  my  honor'd  slave,  possessed : 
The  blue  flowers  mirror'd  in  his  breast, 
And  tire  meek  lamps  that  sweeten  night, 
Had  made  his  heart  too  mild  to  bear 
With  other  than  a  gentle  care, 

And  slow  and  solemn  pace,  a  load  so  violet-eyed  and 
fair! 

26. 

Him  saw  I,  as,  thro'  looming  rocks, 
He  glimmer'd  like  a  serpent  gray 
Whose  moist  coils  hiss  ;  then,  far  away, 
Lo  the  dim  gleam  of  golden  locks, 
Lo  a  far  gleam  of  glinting  gold, 
Floating  in  many  a  throbbing  fold, 
What  time  soft  ripples  panted  dark  on  queenly  eyelids 
cold. 

27. 

Silently,  with  obeisance  meet, 
In  gentle  arms  escorting  well 
The  partner  of  eternal  Hell, 
Thus  flow'd,  not  halting,  to  my  feet 
The  gracious  River  with  his  load  : 
Her  with  dark  arm-sweep  he  bestow'd 
On  my  great  footstool  —  then  again,  with  sharp  shriek, 
upward  flow'd. 

28. 
So  fair,  so  fair,  so  strangely  fair, 

Dark  from  the  waters  lay  my  love  ; 

And  lo,  I,  Ades,  stoop'd  above, 
And  shuddering  touch'd  the  yellow  hair 


28  THE    UNDERTONES. 

That  made  my  beaded  eyeballs  close  — 
Awful  as  sunshine.     Cold  as  snows, 
Pale-faced,  dank-lidded,  proud,  she  lay  in  wonderful 
repose. 

29. 
And  all  the  lesser  Thrones  that  rise 

Around  me,  shook.     With  murmurous  breath, 
Their  Kings  shook  off  eternal  death, 
And  with  a  million  fiery  eyes 

Glared  red  above,  below,  around, 
And  saw  me  stooping  fiery-crown'd  ; 
And  the  white  faces  of  the  damn'd  arose  without  a. 
sound. 

30. 
As  if  an  awful  sunbeam,  rife 

With  living  glory,  pierced  the  gloom,' 
Bringing  to  spirits  blind  with  doom 
The  summers  of  forgotten  life,  — 
Those  pallid  faces,  mad  and  stern, 
Rose  up  in  foam,  and  each  in  turn 
Roll'd  downward,  as  a  white  wave  breaks,  and  seem'd 
to  plead  and  yearn. 


What  time  this  horror  loom'd  beyond, 
Her  soul  was  troubled  into  sighs  : 
Stooping,  throned,  crown'd,  I  touch'd  her  eyes 
With  dim  and  ceremonial  wand  ; 
And  looking  up,  she  saw  and  knew 
An  awful  love  which  did  subdue 
Itself  to  her  bright  comeliness  and  gave  her  greeting 
due! 


ADES,  KING  OF  HELL.  29 

32. 

"  Welcome  !  "  —  The  rocks  and  chasms  and  caves, 
The  million  thrones  and  their  black  kings, 
The  very  snakes  and  creeping  things, 
The  very  damn'd  within  the  waves, 

Groan'd  "  welcome  "  ;  and  she  heard  —  with  light 
Fingers  that  writhed  in  tresses  bright,  — 
But  when  I  touch'd  her  to  the  soul,  she  slowly  rose  her 
height. 

33- 

While  shadows  of  a  reign  eterne 

Quench'd  the  fine  glint  in  her  yellow  hair, 
She  rose  erect  more  hugely  fair, 
And,  dark'ning  to  queenhood  stern, 
She  gazed  into  mine  eyes  and  thence 
Drew  black  and  subtle  inference, 
Subliming  the  black  godhead  there  with  sunnier,  sweeter 
sense. 

34- 
Low  at  her  feet,  huge  Cerberus 

Crouch'd  groaning,  but  with  royal  look 
She  stooping  silenced  him,  and  took 
The  throne  sublime  and  perilous 

That  rose  to  hold  her  and  upstream'd 
Vaporous  fire  :  the  dark  void  scream'd, 
The  pale  Eumenides  made  moan,  with  eyes  and  teeth 
that  gleam'd. 

35- 

Behold,  she  sits  beside  me  now, 
A  weighty  sorrow  in  her  mien, 
Yet  gracious  to  her  woes  —  a  queen ; 

The  sunny  locks  about  her  brow 


30  THE   UNDERTONES. 

Shadow'd  to  godhead  solemn,  meet ; 
Throned,  queen'd  ;  but  round  about  her  feet, 
Sweeten'd  by  gentle  grass  and  flowers,  the  brackish 
waves  grow  sweet. 

36. 

And  surely,  when  the  mirror  dun 

Beneath  me  mirrors  yellowing  leaves,  • 
And  reapers  binding  golden  sheaves, 
And  vineyards  purple  in  the  sun, 
.When  fulness  fills  the  plenteous  year 
Of  the  bright  upper-world,  I  hear 
The  voice  among  the   harvest-fields  that  mourns  a 
daughter  dear. 

37- 

"  Lo,  Ceres  mourns  the  bride  of  Dis," 

The  old  Earth  moans,  and  rocks  and  hills, 
"  Persephone  "  ;  sad  radiance  fills 
The  dripping  horn  of  Artemis, 
Silverly  shaken  in  the  sky ; 
And  a  great  frost-wind  rushing  by  — 
"  Ceres  will  rob  the  eyes  of  Hell  when  seed-time  draw- 
eth  nigh." 

38. 

And  in  the  seed-time  after  snow, 

Down  the  long  caves,  in  soft  distress, 
Dry  corn-blades  tangled  in  her  dress, 

The  weary  goddess  wanders  slow  — 
The  million  eyes  of  Hell  are  bent 
On  my  strange  queen  in  wonderment,  — 
The  ghost  of  Iris  gleams  across  my  waters  impotent ! 


ADES,   KING   OF  HELL.  31 

39- 

And  the  sweet  Bow  bends  mild  and  bland 
O'er  rainy  meadows  near  the  light, 
When  fading  far  along  the  night 
They  wander  upward  hand-in-hand  ; 
And  like  a  phantom  I  remain, 
Chain'd  to  a  throne  in  lonely  reign, 
Till,  sweet  with  greenness,  moonlight-kiss'd,  she  wan- 
ders back  again. 

40. 

But  when  afar  thro'  rifts  of  gold 
And  caverns  steep'd  in  fog  complete, 
I  hear  the  beat  of  her  soft  feet, 
My  kingdom  totters  as  of  old  ; 

And,  conscious  of  her  sweeter  worth, 
Her  godhead  of  serener  birth, 

Hell,  breathing  fire  thro'  flowers  and  leaves,  feels  to 
the  upper-earth. 


32  THE   UNDERTONES. 

III. 
PAN. 

T  T  is  not  well,  ye  gods,  it  is  not  well ! 

•*•   Yea,  hear  me  grumble  —  rouse,  ye  sleepers,  rouse 
Upon^  thick-carpeted  Olumpos'  top  — 
Nor,  faintly  hearing,  murmur  in  your  sloth, 
"  'T  is  but  the  voice  of  Pan  the  malcontent !  " 
Shake  the  sleek  sunshine  from  ambrosial  locks, 
Vouchsafe  a  sleepy  glance  at  the  far  earth 
That  underneath  ye  wrinkles  dim  with  cloud, 
And  smile,  and  sleep  again  ! 

ME,  when  at  first 

The  deep  Vast  murmur'd,  and  Eternity 
Gave  forth  a  hollow  sound  while  from  its  voids 
Ye  blossom'd  thick  as  flowers,  and  by  the  light 
Beheld  yourselves  eternal  and  divine,  — 
ME,  underneath  the  darkness  visible 
And  calm  as  ocean  when  the  cold  Moon  smooths 
The  palpitating  waves  without  a  sound,  — 
Me,  ye  saw  sleeping  in  a  dream,  white-hair'd, 
Low-lidded,  gentle,  aged,  and  like  the  shade 
Of  the  eternal  self-unconsciousness 
Out  of  whose  law  YE  had  awaken'd  —  gods 
Fair-statured,  self-apparent,  marvellous, 
Dove-eyed,  and  inconceivably  divine. 

Over  the  ledges  of  high  mountains,  thro' 
The  fulgent  streams  of  dawn,  soft-pillowe'd 


PAN:  33 

On  downy  clouds  that  swam  in  reddening  streaks 
Like  milk  wherein  a  crimson  wine-drop  melts, 
And  far  beyond  the  dark  of  vague  low  lands, 
Uprose  Apollo,  shaking  from  his  locks 
Ambrosial  dews,  and  making  as  he  rose 
A  murmur  such  as  west  winds  weave  in  June. 
Wherefore  the  darkness  in  whose  depth  I  sat 
Wonder'd  :  thro'  newly-woven  boughs,  the  light 
Crept  onward  to  mine  eyelids  unaware, 
And  fluttering  o'er  my  wrinkled  length  of  limb 
Like  tremulous  butterflies  above  a  snake, 
Uisturb'd  me,  —  and  I  stirr'd,  and  open'd  eyes, 
Then  lifted  up  my  eyes  to  see  the  light, 
And  saw  the  light,  and,  seeing  not  myself, 
Smiled ! 

Thereupon,  ye  gods,  the  woods  and  lawns 
Grew  populously  glad  with  living  things. 
A  rod  of  stone  beneath  my  heel  grew  bright, 
Writhing  to  life,  and  hissing  drew  swift  coils 
O'er  the  upspringing  grass  ;  above  my  head 
A  birch  unbound  her  silver-shimmering  hair, 
Brightening  to  the  notes  of  numerous  birds  ; 
And  far  dim  mountains  hollow'd  out  themselves 
To  give  forth  streams,  till  down  the  mountain-sides 
The  loosen'd  streams  ran  flowing.     Then  a  voice 
Came  from  the  darkness  as  it  roll'd  away 
Under  Apollo's  sunshine-sandall'd  foot, 
And  the  vague  voice  shriek'd  "  Pan  !  "  and  woods  and 

streams 

Sky-kissing  mountains  and  the  courteous  vales, 
Cried  "  Pan  !  "  and  earth's  reverberating  roots 
Gave  forth  an  answer,  "  Pan  !  "  and  stooping  down 
His  fiery  eyes  to  scorch  me  from  my  trance, 
Unto  the  ravishment  of  his  soft  lyre 

3 


34  THE   UNDERTONES. 

"  Pan  !  "  sang  Apollo  :  when  the  wide  world  heard, 
Brightening  brightlier,  till  thro'  murmurous  leaves 
Pale    wood-nymphs    peep'd    around    me    whispering 

«  Pan  !  " 

And  sweeter  faces  floated  in  the  stream 
That  gurgled  to  my  ankle,  whispering  "  Pan  ! " 
And,  clinging  to  the  azure  gown  of  air 
That  floated  earthward  dropping  scented  dews, 
A  hundred  lesser  spirits  panted  "  Pan  !  " 
And,  far  along  an  opening  forest-glade, 
Beating  a  green  lawn  with  alternate  feet, 
"  Pan  !  "  cried  the  satyrs  leaping.     Then  all  sounds 
Were  hush'd  for  coming  of  a  sweeter  sound  ; 
And  rising  up,  with  outstretch'd  arms,  I,  Pan, 
Look'd  eastward,  saw,  and  knew  myself  a  god. 

It  was  not  well,  ye  gods,  it  'was  not  well ! 
Star-guiders,  cloud-compellers  —  ye  who  stretch 
Ambrosia-dripping  limbs,  great-statured,  bright, 
Silken  and  fair-proportion'd,  in  a- place 
Thick-carpeted  with  grass  as  soft  as  sleep  ; 
Who  with  mild  glorious  eyes  of  liquid  depth 
Subdue  to  perfect  peace  and  calm  eterne 
The  mists  and  vapors  of  the  nether-world, 
That  curl  up  dimly  from  the  nether-world 
And  make  a  roseate  mist  wherein  ye  lie 
Soft-lidded,  broad-foreheaded,  stretch'd  supine' 
In  awful  contemplations  —  ye  great  gods, 
Who  meditate  your  souls  and  find  them  fair  — 
Ye  heirs  of  odorous  rest  —  it  was  not  well !  — 
For,  with  Apollo  sheer  above,  I,  Pan, 
In  whom  a  gracious  godhead  lived  and  moved, 
Rose,  glorious-hearted,  and  look'd  down  ;  and  lo, 
Goat-legs,  goat-thighs,  goat-feet,  uncouth  and  rude, 


PAN.  35 

And,  higher,  the  breast  and  bowels  of  a  beast, 

Huge  thews  and  twisted  sinews  swoll'n  like  cords, 

And  thick  integument  of  bark-brown  skin  — 

A  hideous  apparition  masculine  ! 

But  in  my  veins  a  new  and  natural  youth, 

In  my  great  veins  a  music  as  of  boughs 

When  the  cool  aspen-fingers  of  the  Rain 

Feel  for  the  eyelids  of  the  earth  in  spring, 

In  every  vein  quick  life  ;  within  my  soul 

The  meekness  of  some  sweet  eternity 

Forgot ;  and  in  mine  eyes  soft  violet-thoughts 

That  widen'd  in  the  eyeball  to  the  light, 

And  peep'd,  and  trembled  chilly  back  to  the  soul 

Like  leaves  of  violets  closing. 

By  my  lawns, 

My  honey-flowing  rivers,*  by  my  woods 
Grape-growing,  by  my  mountains  down  whose  sides 
The  slow  flocks  thread  like  silver  streams  at  eve, 
By  the  deep  comfort  in  the  eyes  of  Zeus 
When  the  soft  murmur  of  my  peaceful  dales 
Blows  like  a  gust  of  perfume  on  his  cheek, 
There  where  he  reigns,  cloud-shrouded  —  by  meek  lives 
That  smooth  themselves  like  wings  of  doves  and  brood 
Over  immortal  themes  for  love  of  me  — 
I  swear  it  was  not  well. 

Ay,  ay,  ye  smile ;  — 
Ye  hear  me,  garrulous,  and  turn  again 
To  contemplation  of  the  slothful  clouds 
That  curtain  ye  for  sweetness.     Hear  me,  gods  ! 
Not  the  ineffable  stars  that  interlace 
The  azure  panoply  of  Zeus  himself, 
Have  surer  sweetness  than  my  hyacinths 
When  they  grow  blue  in  gazing  on  blue  heaven, 


36  THE   UNDERTONES. 

Than  the  white  lilies  of  my  rivers  when 

In  leafy  spring  Selena's  silver  horn 

Spills  paleness,  peace,  and  fragrance.  —  And  for  these, 

For  all  the  sensible  or  senseless  things 

Which  swell  the  sounds  and  sights  of  earth  and  air, 

I  snatch  some  glory  which  of  right  belongs 

To  ye  whom  I  revile  :  ay,  and  for  these, 

For  all  the  sensible  or  senseless  things 

Which  swell  the  sounds  and  sights  of  earth  and  air, 

I  will  snatch  fresher  glory,  fresher  joy, 

Robbing  your  rights  in  heaven  day  by  day, 

Till  from  my  dispensation  ye  remove 

Darkness,  and  drought  that  parches  thirsty  skins, 

The  stinging  alchemy  of  frost,  the  agues 

That  rack  me  in  the  season  of  wet  winds  — 

Till,  bit  by  bit,  my  bestial  nether-man 

Peels  off  like  bark,  my  green  old  age  shoots  up 

Godhead  apparent,  and  I  know  myself 

Fair  —  as  becomes  a  god  ! 

Ay,  I  shall  do  ! 

Not  I  alone  am  something  garrulous,  gods  ! 
But  the  broad-bosom'd  earth,  whose  countless  young 
Moan  "  Pan  !  "  most  piteously  when  ye  frown 
In  tempests,  or  when  Thunder,  waving  wings, 
Groans  crouching  from  your  lightning  spears,  and  then 
Springs  at  your  lofty  silence  with  a  shriek ! 
Not  I  alone,  low  horror  masculine, 
But  earthquake-shaken  hills,  the  dewy  dales, 
Blue  rivers  as  they  flow,  and  boughs  of  trees, 
Yea,  monsters,  and  the  purblind  race  of  men, 
Grow  garrulous  of  your  higher  glory,  gods  ; 
Yearning  unto  it  moan  my  name  aloud, 
Climbing  unto  it  shriek  or  whisper  "  Pan  !  " 
Till  from  the  far-off  verdurous  depths,  from  deep 


PAN.  37 

Impenetrable  woods  whose  wondrous  roots 
Blacken  to  coal  or  redden  into  gold, 
I,  stirring  in  this  ancient  dream  of  mine, 
Make  answer  —  and  they  hear. 

In  Arcady 

I,  sick  of  mine  own  envy,  hollow'd  out 
A  valley,  green  and  deep  ;  then  pouring  forth 
From  the  great  hollow  of  my  hand  a  stream 
Sweeter  than  honey,  bade  it  wander  on 
In  blue  and  oily  lapse  to  the  far  sea. 
Upon  its  banks  grew  flowers  as  thick  as  grass, 
Gum-dropping  poplars  and  the  purple  vine, 
Slim  willows  dusty  like  the  thighs  of  bees, 
And,  further,  stalks  of  corn  and  wheat  and  flax, 
And,  even  further,  on  the  mountain  sides 
White  sheep  and  new-yean'd  lambs,  and  in  the  midst 
Mild-featured  shepherds  piping.     Was  not  this 
An  image  of  your  grander  ease,  O  gods  ? 
A  faint  sweet  picture  of  your  bliss,  O  gods  ? 
They  thank'd  me,  those  sweet  shepherds,  with  the  smoke 
Of  crimson  sacrifice  of  lambkins  slain, 
Rich  spices,  succulent  herbs  that  savor  meats  ; 
And  when  they  came  upon  me  ere  aware, 
Walk'd  sudden  on  my  presence  where  I  piped 
By  rivers  lorn  my  mournful  ditties  old, 
Cried  "  Pan  !  "  and  worshipp'd.     Yet  it  was  not  well, 
Ye  gods,  it  was  not  well,  that  I,  who  gave 
The  harvest  to  these  men,  and  with  my  breath 
Thicken'd  the  wool  upon  the  backs  of  sheep, 
I,  Pan,  should  in  these  purblind  mortal  forms 
Witness  a  loveliness  more  gently  fair, 
Nearer  to  your  dim  loveliness,  O  gods  ! 
Than  my  immortal  wood-pervading  self,  — 
Carelessly  blown  on  by  the  rosy  Hours, 


38  THE   UNDERTONES. 

Who  breathe  quick  breath  and  smile  before  they  die  - 
Goat-footed,  horn'd,  a  monster  —  yet  a  god. 

By  wanton  Aphrodite's  velvet  limbs, 
I  swear,  ye  amorous  gods,  it  was  not  well !  — 
Down  the  long  vale  of  Arcady  I  chased 
A  wood-nymph,  unapparell'd  and  white-limb'd, 
From  gleaming  shoulder  unto  foot  a  curve 
Delicious,  like  the  bow  of  Artemis  : 
A  gleam  of  dewy  moonlight  on  her  limbs ; 
Within  her  veins  a  motion  as  of  waves 
Moon-led  and  silver-crested  to  the  moon  ; 
And  in  her  heart  a  sweetness  such  as  fills 
Uplooking  maidens  when  the  virgin  orb 
Witches  warm  bosoms  into  snows,  and  gives 
The  colorable  chastity  of  flowers 
To  the  tumultuous  senses  curl'd  within. 
Her,  after  summer  noon,  what  time  her  foot 
Startled  with  moonlight  motion  milk-blue  stalks 
Of  hyacinths  in  a  dim  forest  glade,  — 
Her  saw  I,  and,  uplifting  eager  arms, 
I  rush'd  around  her  as  a  rush  of  boughs, 
My  touch  thrill'd  thro'  her,  she  beheld  my  face, 
And  like  a  gnat  it  stung  her,  and  she  fled. 

Down  the  green  glade,  along  the  verdurous  shade, 
She  screaming  fled  and  I  pursued  behind  : 
By  Zeus,  it  was  as  though  the  forest  moved 
Behind  her,  following  ;  and  with  shooting  boughs, 
And  bristling  arms  and  stems,  and  murmurous  leaves, 
It  eddied  after  her  —  my  underwood 
Of  bramble  and  the  yellow-blossom'd  furze 
Flung  its  thick  growth  around  her  waist,  my  trees 
Dropt  thorns  before  her,  and  my  growing  grass 


PAN.  39 

Put  forth  its  green  and  sappy  oils  and  slid 

Under  her  feet ;  until,  with  streaming  hair 

Like  ravell'd  sunshine  torn  'mid  scars  and  cliffs, 

Pale,  breathless,  and  long-throated  like  a  swan, 

With  tongue  that  panted  'tween  the  foamy  lips 

As  the  red  arrow  in  a  tulip's  cup, 

She,  coming  swiftly  on  the  river-side, 

Into  the  circle  of  a  seclgy  pool 

Plunged  knee-deep,  shrieking.    Then  I,  thrusting  arms 

To  grasp  her,  touch'd  her  with  hot  hands  that  clung 

Like  burrs  to  the  soft  skin  ;  while,  writhing  down 

Even  as  a  fountain  lessens  gurglingly, 

She  cried  to  Artemis,  "  Artemis,  Artemis, 

Sweet  goddess,  Artemis,  aid  me,  Artemis  !  " 

And  o'er  the  laurels  on  the  river-side, 

Dark  and  low-fluttering,  Daphne's  hidden  soul 

Breathed  fearful  hoar-frost,  echoing  "  Artemis  "  ; 

When  lo,  above  the  sandy  sunset  rose 

The  silver  sickle  of  the  green-gown'd  witch, 

Which  flicker'd  thrice  into  a  pallid  orb, 

And  thrice  flash'd  white  across  the  forest  leaves, 

And  —  lo,  the  change  ye  wot  of:  melting  limbs 

Black'ning  to  oozy  sap  of  reeds,  white  hands 

Waving  aloft  and  putting  forth  green  shoots, 

The  faint  breath-bubbles  circling  in  a  pool, 

Last,  the  sharp  voice's  murmur  dying  away 

In  the  low  lapping  of  the  rippling  pool, 

The  melancholy  motion  of  the  pool, 

And  the  faint  undertone  of  whispering  reeds. 

By  Latmos  and  its  shepherd,  was  it  well  ? 
By  smooth-chin'd  Syrinx,  was  it  well,  O  gods  ? 
Yet  mark.     What  time  the  pallid  sickle  wax'd 
Blue-edged  and  luminous  o'er  the  black'ning  west, 


40  THE   UNDERTONES. 

I,  looming  hideous  in  the  smooth  pool,  stooped 

And  pluck'd  seven  wondrous  pipes  of  brittle  reeds 

Wherein  the  wood-nymph's  soul  still  flutter'd  faint ; 

And  these  seven  pipes  I  shaped  to  one,  wherein 

I,  Pan,  with  ancient  and  dejected  head 

Nodding  above  its  image  in  the  pool, 

And  large   limbs  stretch'd  their  length  on  shadowy 

banks, 

Did  breathe  such  weird  and  awful  ravishment, 
Such  symmetry  of  sadness  and  sweet  sound, 
Such  murmurs  of  deep  boughs  and  hollow  cells, 
That  neither  bright  Apollo's  hair-strung  lute, 
Nor  Here's  queenly  tongue  when  her  red  lips 
Flutter  to  intercession  of  love-thoughts 
Throned  in  the  counsel-keeping  eyes  of  Zeus, 
Nor  airs  from  heaven,  blow  sweetlier.    Hear  me,  gods  ! 
Behind  her  veil  of  azure,  Artemis 
Turn'd    pale    and    listen'd ;    mountains,    woods,   and 

streams, 

And  every  mute  and  living  thing  therein, 
Marvell'd,  and  hush'd  themselves  to  hear  the  end  — 
Yea,  far  away,  the  fringe  of  the  green  sea 
Caught  the  faint  sound  and  with  a  deeper  moan 
Rounded  the  pebbles  on  the  shadowy  shore. 
Whence,  in  the  season  of  the  pensive  eve, 
The  earth  plumes  down  her  weary,  weary  wings  ;     • 
The  Hours,  each  frozen  in  his  mazy  dance, 
Look  scared  upon  the  stars  and  seem  to  stand 
Stone-still,  like  chisell'd  angels  mocking  Time  ; 
And  woods  and  streams  and  mountains,  beasts  and  birds, 
And  serious  hearts  of  purblind  men,  are  hush'd ; 
While  music  sweeter  far  than  any  dream 
Floats  from  the  far-off  silence,  where  I  sit 
Wondrously  wov'n  about  with  forest  boughs  — 


PAN.  41 

Through  which  the  moon  peeps  faintly,  on  whose  leaves 

The  unseen  stars  sprinkle  a  diamond  dew  — 

And  shadow'd  in  some  water  that  not  flows, 

But,  pausing,  spreads  dark  waves  as  smooth  as  oil 

To  listen ! 

Am  I  over-garrulous,  gods  ? 

Thou  pale-faced  witch,  green-kirtled,  —  thou  whose  light 
Troubles  the  beardless  shepherd  where  he  sleeps 
On  Latmos,  —  am  I  over-garrulous? 
Nay,  then,  pale  huntress  of  my  groves,  I  swear 
The  lily  and  the  primrose  'neath  thy  heel 
Savor  as  fair  as  thee,  as  pure  as  thee, 
Drinking  the  lucid  glamour  of  thy  speed  ; 
And  on  the  cheeks  of  marriageable  maids 
Dwelleth  a  pallor  enviably  sweet, 
Sweet  as  thy  sweetest  self,  yet  robb'd  from  thee. 
Snow-bosom'd  lady,  art  thou  proud?  —  Then  hark  .*.  . 
When  last  in  the  cool  quiet  of  the  night 
Thou  glimmeredst  dimly  down  with  thy  white  nymphs, 
And  brush'd  these  dewy  lawns  with  buskin'd  foot, 
I,  Pan  the  scorn'd,  into  an  oak-tree  crept, 
And  holding  between  thumb  and  finger  —  thus  — 
A  tiny  acorn,  dropt  it  cunningly 
In  the  small  nest  beneath  thy  snow-heap'd  breasts, 
And  thou  didst  pause  in  tumult,  cried  aloud, 
Then  redden'd  like  a  rose  from  breast  to  brow, 
Sharp-crimson  like  a  rose  from  breast  to  brow, 
And  trembled,  aspen-hearted,  timorous 
As  new-yean'd  lambs,  and  with  a  young  doe's  cry 
Startled  amazed  from  thine  own  tremulous  shade 
Faint-mirror'd  in  the  dark  and  dewy  lawn  ! 

Ha,  turn  your  mild  grand  eyes,  O  gods,  and  hear  ! 
Why  do  I  murmur  darkly,  do  ye  ask  ? 


42  THE   UNDERTONES. 

What  do  I  seek  for,  yearn  for  ?  —  Why,  not  much. 

I  would  be  milky-limb'd  and  straight  and  tall 

And  pleasant-featured,  like  Apollo  there  ! 

I  would  be  lithe  and  fair  as  Hermes  is  ; 

And,  with  that  glittering  sheath  of  god-like  form, 

Trust  me,  could  find  for  it  a  wit  as  keen 

As  that  which  long  ago  did  prick  and  pain 

The  thin  skin  of  the  Sun-god.     I  would  be 

Grand  and  fine-statured  as  becomes  a  god, 

A  sight  divine  conceived  harmoniously, 

A  stately  incarnation  of  my  sweet 

Pipings  in  lonely  places.     There  's  the  worm  ! 

« 

Ay,  ay,' the  mood  is  on  me,  —  I  am  aged, 
White-bearded,  and  my  very  lifted  hands 
Shake  garrulously,  —  and  ye  hear,  and  smile. 
By  the  faint  undertone  of  this  blind  Earth, 
Swooning  towards  the  pathway  of  the  Sun 
With  flowery  pulses,  leafy  veins,  whene'er 
She  hears  in  intercession  of  new  births 
My  voice  miraculous  melancholy  old,  — 
I  swear  not  I  alone,  a  sensible  god, 
Shall  keep  these  misproportions,  worse  than  beast's  ; 
While  woods  and  streams,  and  all  that  dwell  therein, 
And  merest  flowers,  and  the  starr'd  coils  of  snakes, 
Yea,  purblind  mortal  men,  inhale  from  heaven 
Such  dews  as  give  them  heavenly  seemliness, 
Communicably  lovely  as  the  shapes 
That  doze  on  high  Olumpos. 

Is  it  well  ? 

Ye  who  compel  the  very  clouds  to  forms 
Beauteous  and  purely  beauteous,  ere  my  rain 
Rends  their  white  vestments  into  flowers  to  make 
My  peaceful  vales  look  lovely,  —  gods,  great  gods, 


PAN.  43 

I  ask  ye,  is  it  well  ?  —  Ye  answer  not. 

But  Earth  has  answer'd,  and  all  things  that  grow, 

All  things  that  live,  all  things  that  feel  or  see 

The  interchanges  of  the  sun  and  moon ; 

And  with  a  yearning  palpable  and  dumb, 

Yet  conscious  of  some  glory  yet  unborn, 

Of  unfulfilled  mysteries,  I,  Pan, 

Prophesy. 

In  the  time  to  come,  —  in  years 
Across  whose  vast  I  wearily  impel 
These  ancient,  blear'd,  and  humble-lidded  eyes, — 
Some  law  more  strong  than  I,  yet  part  of  me, 
Some  power  more  piteous,  yet  a  part  of  me, 
Shall  hurl  ye  from  Olumpos  to  the  depths, 
And  bruise  ye  back  to  that  great  darkness  whence 
Ye  blossom'd  thick  as  flowers  ;  while  I  —  I,  Pan  — 
The  ancient  haunting  shadow  of  dim  earths, 
Shall  slough  this  form  of  beast,  this  wrinkled  length, 
Yea,  cast  it  from  my  feet  as  one  who  shakes 
A  worthless  garment  off;  and  lo,  beneath, 
Mild-featured  manhood,  manhood  eminent, 
Subdued  into  the  glory  of  a  god, 
Sheer  harmony  of  body  and  of  soul, 
Wondrous,  and  inconceivably  divine. 

Wherefore,  ye  gods,  with  this  my  prophecy 
I  sadden  those  sweet  sounds  I  pipe  unseen. 
From  dimly  lonely  places  float  the  sounds 
To  haunt  the  regions  of  the  homeless  air, 
Whatever  changeful  season  ye  vouchsafe 
To  all  broad  worlds  which,  hearing,  whisper,  "  Pan  !  " 
And  thence  they  reach  the  hearts  of  lonely  men, 
Who  wearily  bear  the  burden  and  are  pain'd 
To  utterance  of  fond  prophetic  song, 


44  THE   UNDERTONES. 

Who  singing  smile,  because  the  song  is  sweet, 
Who  die,  because  they  cannot  sing  the  end. 

It  is  my  care  to  keep  the  graves  of  such 
Thick-strewn  and  deep  with  grass  and  precious  flowers 
Such  as  ye  slumber  on  ;  and  to  those  graves, 
In  sable  vestments,  ever  comes  the  ghost 
Of  my  forgot  and  dumb  eternity, 
Mnemosyne  ;  but  what  she  broods  on  there 
I  know  not,  nor  can  any  wholly  know, 
Mortal  or  god.     The  seasons  come  and  go, 
In  their  due  season  perish  rocks  and  trees, 
In  their  due  season  are  the  streams  drain'd  dry ; 
Earth  dumbly  changes,  and  those  lonely  men, 
Less  blind  than  purblind  mortals,  sing  and  die  ; 
But  still,  with  hooded  and  dejected  head, 
Above  those  graves  ponders  Mnemosyne  ; 
While  I  remain  to  pipe  my  ditties  old, 
And  my  new  prophecy,  in  ancient  woods 
And  by  the  margins  of  unfortunate  pools, — 
My  wondrous  music  dying  afar  away 
Upon  the  fringes  of  the  setting  sun. 


THE  NAIAD.  45 

IV. 
THE    NAIAD. 


T^\IAN  white-arm'd  has  given  me  this  cool  shrine, 
*-'  Deep  in  the  bosom  of  a  wood  of  pine  : 
The  silver-sparkling  showers 
That  hive  me  in,  the  flowers  * 

That  prink  my  fountain's  brim,  are  hers  and  mine  ; 
And  when  the  days  are  mild  and  fair, 

And  grass  is  springing,  buds  are  blowing, 
Sweet  it  is,  'mid  waters  flowing, 
Here  to  sit,  and  know  no  care, 

'Mid  the  waters  flowing,  flowing,  flowing, 
Combing  my  yellow,  yellow  hair. 


The  ounce  and  panther  down  the  mountain-side 
Creep  thro'  dark  greenness  in  the  eventide ; 
And  at  the  fountain's  brink 
Casting  great  shades  they  drink, 
Gazing  upon  me,  tame  and  sapphire-eyed  ; 
For,  awed  by  my  pale  face,  whose  light 
Gleameth  thro'  sedge  and  lilies  yellow. 
They,  lapping  at  my  fountain  mellow, 
Harm  not  the  lamb  that  in  affright 

Throws  in  the  pool  so  mellow,  mellow,  mellow, 
Its  shadow  small  and  dusky- white. 


46  THE   UNDERTONES. 

3- 

Oft  do  the  fauns  and  satyrs,  flusht  with  play, 
Come  to  my  coolness  in  the  hot  noon-day. 
Nay,  once  indeed,  I  vow 
By  Dian's  truthful  brow, 
The  great  god  Pan  himself  did  pass  this  way, 
And,  all  in  festal  oak-leaves  clad, 

His  limbs  among  these  lilies  throwing, 
Watch'd  the  silver  waters  flowing, 
Listen'd  to  their  music  glad, 

Saw  and  heard  them  flowing,  flowing,  flowing, 
And  ah  !  his  face  was  worn  and  sad  ! 


Mild  joys  around  like  silvery  waters  fall ; 
But  it  is  sweetest,  sweetest  far  of  all, 
In  the  calm  summer  night, 
When  the  tree-tops  look  white, 
To  be  exhaled  in  dew  at  Dian's  call, 
Among  my  sister-clouds  to  move 
Over  the  darkness  earth-bedimming, 
Milky-robed  thro'  heaven  swimming, 
Floating  round  the  stars  above, 

Swimming  proudly,  swimming,  proudly  swimming, 
And  waiting  on  the  Moon  I  love. 

-    5- 

So  tenderly  I  keep  this  cool  green  shrine, 
Deep  in  the  bosom  of  a  wood  of  pine  ; 

Faithful  thro'  shade  and  sun, 

That  service  due  and  done 
May  haply  earn  for  me  a  place  divine 
Among  the  white-robed  deities 


THE  SATYR.  47 

That  thread  thro'  starry  paths,  attending 

My  sweet  Lady,  calmly  wending 
Thro'  the  silence  of  the  skies, 

Changing  in  hues  of  beauty  never  ending, 
Drinking  the  light  of  Dian's  eyes. 


V. 
THE    SATYR. 


'T^HE  trunk  of  this  tree, 
-•-    Dusky-leaved,  shaggy-rooted, 

Is  a  pillow  well  suited 
To  a  hybrid  like  me, 

Goat-bearded,  goat-footed ; 
For  the  boughs  of  the  glade 

Meet  above  me,  and  throw 
A  cool  pleasant  shade 

On  the  greenness  below ; 
Dusky  and  brown'd 

Close  the  leaves  all  around ; 
And  yet,  all  the  while, 

Thro'  the  boughs  I  can  see 
A  star,  with  a  smile, 

Looking  at  me. 

2. 
Full  length  I  lie, 

On  this  mossy  tree-knot, 


48  THE   UNDERTONES. 

With  face  to  the  sky, 
.  The  vast  blue  I  see  not ; 

And  I  start  in  surprise 
From  my  dim  half-dream, 
With  the  moist  white  gleam 

Of  the  star  in  mine  eyes  : 
So  strange  does  it  seem 
That  the  star  should  beam 

From  her  crystal  throne 
On  this  forest  nook 
Of  all  others,  and  look 

Upon  me  alone : 

Ay,  that  yonder  divine 
Soft  face 
Should  shine 

On  this  one  place  ; 

And,  when  things  so  fair 

Fill  the  earth  and  air, 
Should  choose  to  be, 

Night  after  night, 

The  especial  light . 
Of  a  monster  like  me  ! 

3- 
Why,  all  day  long, 

I  run  about 

With  a  madcap  throng, 
And  laugh  and  shout 
Silenus  grips 

My  ears,  and  strides 
On  my  shaggy  hips,    • 
And  up  and  down 
In  an  ivy  crown 
Tipsily  rides ; 


THE  SATYR.  49 

And  when  in  a  doze 
His  eyelids  close, 

Off  he  tumbles,  and  I 
Can  his  wine-skin  steal, 
I  drink  —  and  feel 

The  grass  roll  —  sea-high 
Then  with  shouts  and  yells, 
Down  mossy  dells, 
I  stagger  after 

The  wood-nymphs  fleet, 
Who  with  mocking  laughter 

And  smiles  retreat ; 
And  just  as  I  clasp 

A  yielding  waist, 

With  a  cry  embraced, 
Gush  !  it  melts  from.my  grasp 

Into  water  cool, 
And  —  bubble  !  trouble  ! 
Seeing  double  ! 
I  stumble  and  gasp 

In  some  icy  pool ! 

4- 

All  suborn  me, 
Flout  me,  scorn  me  ! 
Drunken  joys 

And  cares  are  mine, 
Romp  and  noise, 

And  the  dregs  of  wine  ; 
And  whene'er  in  the  night 

Diana  glides  by 

The  spot  where  I  lie, 
With  her  maids  green-dight, 

I  must  turn  my  back 
4 


50  THE   UNDERTONES, 

In  a  rude  affright, 

And  blindly  fly 

From  her  shining  track  ; 
Or  if  only  I  hear 
Her  bright  footfall  near, 

Fall  with  face  to  the  grass, 
Not  breathing  for  fear 

Till  I  feel  her  pass. 

5- 
I  am  — 

I  know  not  what : 
Neither  what  I  am, 

Nor  what  I  am  not  — 
I  seem  to  have  rollick'd, 

Ajid  frolick'd, 
In  this  wood  for  aye, 

With  a  beast's  delight 
Romping  all  day, 

Dreaming  all  night ! 
Yet  I  seem 

To  remember  awaking 

Just  here,  and  aching 

With  the  last  forsaking 

Tender  gleam 

Of  a  droll  strange  dream.  — 
When  I  lay  at  mine  ease, 

With  a  sense  at  my  heart 

Of  being  a  part 
Of  the  grass  and  trees 
And  the  scented  earth, 

And  of  drinking  the  bright 

Subdued  sunlight 
With  a  leafy  mirth : 


THE  SATYR.  51 

Then  behold,  I  could  see 

A  wood-nymph  peeping 
Out  of  her  tree, 

And  closer  creeping, 
Timorously 
Looking  at  me ! 
And  still,  so  still, 
I  lay  until 

She  trembled  close  to  me, 

Soft  as  a  rose  to  me, 
And  I  leapt  with  a  thrill 

And  a  shout,  and  threw 
Arms  around  her,  and  press'd  her, 
Kiss'd  her,  caress'd  her,  — 

Ere  she  scream'd,  and  flew. 


Then  I  was  'ware 

Of  a  power  I  had  — 
To  drink  the  air, 

Laugh  and  shout, 
Run  about, 

And  be  consciously  glad  — 
So  I  follow'd  the  maiden 

'Neath  shady  eaves, 
Thro'  groves  deep-laden 

With  fruit  and  leaves, 
Till,  drawing  near 
To  a  brooklet  clear, 
I  shuddering  fled 

From  the  monstrous  shape 
There  mirrored  — 
Which  seem'd  to  espy  me, 


THE   UNDERTONES. 

And  grin  and  gape, 
And  leap  up  high 
In  the  air  with  a  cry, 
And  fly  me  ! 


Whence  I  seem  to  have  slowly 

Grown  conscious  of  being 
A  thing  wild,  unholy, 

And  foul  to  the  seeing.  — 
But  ere  I  knew  aught 

Of  others  like  me, 
I  would  lie,  fancy-fraught, 
In  the  greenness  of  thought, 

Beneath  a  green  tree  ; 
And  seem  to  be  deep 

In  the  scented  earth-shade 

'Neath  the  grass  of  the  glade, 
In  a  strange  half-sleep  : 
When  the  wind  seem'd  to  move  me, 

The  cool  rain  to  kiss, 
The  sunlight  to  love  me, 

The  stars  in  their  bliss 
To  tingle  above  me  ; 
And  I  crept  thro'  deep  bowers 
That  were  sparkling  with  showers 

And  sprouting  for  pleasure, 
And  I  quicken'd  the  flowers 

To  a  joy  without  measure  — 
Till  my  sense  seem'd  consuming 

With  warmth,  and,  upspringing, 
I  saw  the  flowers  blooming, 

And  heard  the  birds  singing! 


THE  SATYR.  53 


Wherever  I  range, 

Thro'  the'greenery, 
That  vision  strange,     • 

Whatsoever  it  be, 

Is  a  part  of  me 
Which  suffers  not  change.  — 
The  changes  of  earth, 

Water,  air,  ever-stirring, 

Disturb  me,  conferring 
My  sadness  or  mirth  : 
Wheresoever  I  run, 
I  drink  strength  from  the  sun ; 
The  wind  stirs  my  veins 

With  the  leaves  of  the  wood, 
The  dews  and  the  rains 

Mingle  into  my  blood. 
I  stop  short 
In  my  sport, 

Panting,  and  cower, 
While  the  blue  skies  darken 

With  a  sunny  shower  ; 
And  I  lie  and  hearken, 

In  a  balmy  pain 
To  the  tinkling  clatter, 
Fitter,  patter, 

Of  the  rain 
On  the  leaves  close  to  me, 

And  sweet  thrills  pass 
Thro'  and  thro'  me, 

Till  I  tingle  like  grass. 
When  lightning  with  noise 

Tears  the  wood's  green  ceiling, 


54  THE   UNDERTONES. 

When  the  black  sky's  voice 

Is  terribly  pealing, 
I  hide  me,  hide  me,  hide  me, 

With  wild  averted  face, 

In  some  terror-stricken  place, 
While  flowers  and  trees  beside  me, 

And  every  streamlet  near, 
Darken,  whirl,  and  wonder, 
Above,  around,  and  under, 
And  murmur  back  the  thunder 

In  a  palpitating  fear  ! 


Ay  ;  and  when  the  earth  turns 

A  soft  bosom  of  balm 
To  the  darkness  that  yearns 

Above  it,  and  grows 

To  dark,  dewy,  and  calm 

Repose,  — 

I,  apart  from  rude  riot, 
Partake  of  the  quiet 

The  night  is  bequeathing, 
Lie,  unseen  and  unheard, 
In  the  greenness  just  stirr'd 

By  its  own  soft  breathing  — 
And  my  heart  then  thrills 

With  a  strange  sensation 
Like  the  purl  of  rills 
Down  moonlit  hills 

That  loom  afar, 
With  a  sweet  sensation 
Like  the  palpitation 

Of  yonder  star ! 


THE  SATYR.  55 

10. 
Thro'  yonder  bough 

Her  white  ray  twinkles  ; 
And  on  my  brow 

She  silently  sprinkles 
A  dewy  rain, 
That  lulls  my  brain 
To  a  dream  of  being 

Under  the  ground, 
Blind  to  seeing, 

Deaf  to  sound, 
Drinking  a  dew 

That  drops  from  afar, 
And  feeling  unto 

The  sweet  pulse  of  a  star, 
Who  is  beckoning  me 
Though  I  cannot  see ! 
And  of  suddenly  blooming 

Up  into  the  air, 
And,  swooning,  assuming 

The  shape  I  wear  ! 
While  all  fair  things 

Fly  night  and  day  from  me, 
Wave  bright  wings, 

And  glimmer  away  from  me  ! 

n. 

—  She  shines  above  me, 

And  heareth  not, 

Though  she  smiles  on  this  spot 
And  seems  to  love  me. 
Here  I  lie  aloof, 

Goat-footed,  knock-kneed, 

A  monster,  indeed, 


56  THE   UNDERTOArES. 

From  horns  to  hoof; 
And  the  star  burns  clearly 

With  pearl-white  gleam  — 
Have  I  merely 

Elream'd  a  dream  ? 

12. 

—  Did  she  hear  me,  I  wonder  ?  — 

She  trembles  upon 

Her  throne  —  and  is  gone  ! 
The  boughs  darken  under, 

Then  thrill,  and  are  stirr'd 

By  the  notes  of  a  bird. 
The  green  grass  brightens 

With  pearly  dew, 
And  the  whole  wood  whitens 

As  the  dawn  creeps  thro'.  — 
"Hoho!"  —  that  shout 
Flung  the  echoes  about 

The  boughs,  like  balls  ! 

Who  calls?  — 
'T  is  the  noisy  rout 
Of  my  fellows  upspringing' 

From  sleep  and  dreaming, 
To  the  birds'  shrill  singing, 

The  day's  soft  beaming  : 
And  they  madly  go 
To  and  fro, 

Though  o'  nights  they  are  dumb. 
Hoho !  hoho ! 

I  come  !  I  come  ! 
Hark !  —  to  the  cry 
They  reply : 
"  Ha,  there,  ha  !  " 


VENUS  ON  THE  SUN-CAR.  57 

"Hurrah!"  — "hurrah!" 

And  starting  afraid 
At  the  cries, 

In  the  depths  of  the  glade 
Echo  replies  — 

"  Ho,  there  !  "  —  "  ho,  there  !  "  — 
By  the  stream  below  there 

The  answer  dies. 


VI. 
VENUS    ON  THE   SUN-CAR. 


HPELL  me,  thou  many-finger'd  Frost, 
-*•     Coming  and  going  like  a  ghost 

In  leafless  woods  forsaken  — 
O  Frost,  that  o'er  him  lying  low 
Drawest  the  garment  of  the  snow 

From  silver  cloud-wings  shaken, 
And  round  bare  boughs  with  strange  device 
Twinest  fantastic  leaves  of  ice  — 

When  will  Adon  waken  ? 
Lo,  dawn  by  dawn  I  rise  afar 
Beside  Apollo  in  his  car, 

And,  far  below  us  wreathing, 
Thy  fogs  and  mists  are  duskly  curl'd 
Round  the  white  slumber  of  the  world, 

Like  to  its  own  deep  breathing ; 
But  crimson  thro'  the  mist  our  light 


58  THE   UNDERTONES. 

Foameth  and  freezeth,  till  by  night 

Snow-bosom'd  hills  we' fade  on  — 
The  pallid  god,  at  my  desire, 
Gives  unto  thee  a  breath  of  fire 
To  reach  the  lips  of  Adon. 


Tell  me,  thou  bare  and  wintry  World, 
Wherein  the  winged  flowers  are  curl'd 

Like  pygmy  spirits  dozing  — 
O  World,  within  whose  lap  he  lies, 
With  thy  quick  earth  upon  his  eyes, 

In  dim  unseen  reposing, 
Husht  underneath  the  wind  and  storm, 
Still  rosy-lipt  in  darkness  warm  — 

Are  Adon's  eyes  unclosing  ? 
Lo,  dawn  by  dawn  I  rise  afar 
Beside  Apollo  in  his  car, 

Thro'  voids  of  azure  soaring, 
And  gazing  down  on  regions  dead, 
With  golden  hair  dishevelled, 

And  claspe'd  hands  imploring. 
Wonderful  creatures  of  the  light 
Hover  above  thee,  hanging  bright 

Faint  pictures  glen  and  glade  on  : 
The  pallid  god,  at  my  desire, 
Hideth  in  glimmering  snows  his  fire, 

To  reach  the  sleep  of  Adon. 

3- 

Tell  me,  thou  spirit  of  the  Sun, 
Radiant-lock'd  and  awful  one, 

Strong,  constant,  unforsaking  — 
Sun,  by  whose  shadier  side  I  sit, 


VENUS  ON  THE  SUN-CAR.  59 

And  search  thy  fa<?e,  and  question  it, 

Conferring  light  and  taking  — 
Whose  fiery  westward  motion  throws 
The  shadow-hours  on  his  repose,  — 

Is  my  Adon  waking  ? 
Lo,  dawn  by  dawn  I  rise  afar 
Beside  thee  in  thy  flaming  car, 

Thou  ever-constant  comer ! 
And  flashing  on  the  clouds  that  break 
Around  our  path  thy  sunbeams  make 

A  phantom  of  the  summer. 
O  breathe  upon  the  Moon,  that  she 
May  use  her  magic  witchery 

When  snowy  hills  we  fade  on, 
That,  in  the  dark,  when  thou  art  gone, 
She  speed  the  resurrection, 

And  stir  the  sleep -of  Adon  ! 

4- 

Tell  me,  O  silver-winged  Moon, 
That  glidest  to  melodious  tune 

Ice-sparkling  skies  on  skies  up, — 
O  Moon,  that  to  the  sunset  gray, 
Drinking  faint  light  that  fades  away, 

Liftest  immortal  eyes  up, 
And  walking  on,  art  thro'  the  night 
Troubled  to  pain  by  that  strange  light,  — 

When  will  Adon  rise  up  ? 
Lo,  dawn  by  dawn  I  rise  afar 
Beside  Apollo  in  his  car, 

Imploring  sign  or  token  ; 
But  night  by  night  such  pale  peace  beams 
Upon  his  slumber,  that  it  seems 

Too  beauteous  to  be  broken  ! 


6o  THE   UNDERTONES. 

O  gentle  goddess,  be  not  cold  — 
But,  some  dim  dawn,  may  we  behold 

New  glory  hill  and  glade  on, 
The  leaves  and  flowers  alive  to  bliss, 
And,  somewhat  pale  with  thy  last  kiss, 

The  smiling  face  of  Adon  ! 


VII. 
SELENE   THE    MOON. 


I   HIDE  myself  in  the  cloud  that  flies 
From  the  west  and  drops  on  the  hill's  gray  shoulder, 
And  I  gleam  thro'  the  cloud  with  my  panther-eyes, 

While  the  stars  turn  paler,  the  dews  grow  colder ; 
I  veil  my  naked  glory  in  mist, 

Quivering  downward  and  dewily  glistening, 
Till  his  sleep  is  as  pale  as  my  lips  unkist, 

And  I  tremble  above  him,  panting  and  listening. 
As  white  as  a  star,  as  cold  as  a  stone, 
Dim  as  my  light  in  a  sleeping  lake, 
With  his  head  on  his  arm  he  lieth  alone. 

And  I  sigh  "Awake! 
Wake,  Endymion,  wake  and  see  !  " 
And  he  stirs  in  his  sleep  for  the  love  of  me  ; 
But  on  his  eyelids  my  breath  I  shake  : 
"  Endymion,  Endymion  ! 
Awaken,  awaken !  " 

And  the  yellow  grass  stirs  with  the  mystic  moan, 
And  the  tall  pines  groan, 


SELENE    THE  MQON.  61 


And  Echo  sighs  in  her  grot  forsaken 
The  name  of  Endymion  ! 


A  foamy  dew  from  the  Ocean  old, 

Whence  I  rise  with  shadows  behind  me  flying, 
Drops  from  my  sandals  and  glittereth  cold 

On  the  long  spear-grass  where  my  love  is  lying ; 
My  face  is  dim  with  departed  suns, 

And  my  eyes  are  dark  from  the  depths  of  ocean, 
A  starry  shudder  throughout  me  runs, 

And  my  pale  cloud  stirs  with  a  radiant  motion, 
When  the  darkness  wherein  he  slumbers  alone 

Ebbs  back  from  my  brightness,  as  black  waves  break 
From  my  shining  ankle  with  shuddering  tone  ; 

And  I  sigh  "  Awake  ! 
Wake,  Endymion,  wake  and  hear ! " 
And  he  stirs  in  his  sleep  with  a  dreamy  fear, 
And  his  thin  lips  part  for  my  sweet  sake : 
"  Endymion,  Endymion ! 
Awaken,  awaken ! " 
And  the  skies  are  moved,  and  a  shadow  is  blown 

From  the  Thunderer's  throne, 
And  the  spell  of  a  voice  from  Olumpos  shaken 
Echoes  "  Endymion  !  " 

3- 
Then  under  his  lids  like  a  balmy  rain 

I  put  pale  dreams  of  my  heavenly  glory ;  — 
And  he  sees  me  lead  with  a  silver  chain 

The  tamed  Sea-Tempest  white-tooth'd  and  hoary ; 
And  he  sees  me  fading  thro'  forests  dark 

Where  the  leopard  and  lion  avoid  me  in  wonder, 
Or  ploughing  the  sky  in  a  pearly  bark, 


62  TJf£    UNDERTONES. 

While  the  earth  is  dumb  with  my  beauty  under ! 
Then  he  brightens  and  yearns  where  he  lies  alone, 
And  his  heart  grows  dumb  with  a  yearning  ache, 
And  the  thin  lips  part  with  a  wondering  moan, 

As  I  sigh  "  Awake ! 
Wake,  Endymion,  wake  and  see 
All  things  grow  bright  for  the  love  of  me, 

With  a  love  that  grows  gentle  for  thy  sweet  sake  ! 
Endymion,  Endymion  ! 
Awaken,  awaken  ! " 
And  my  glory  grows  paler,  the  deep  woods  groan, 

And  the  waves  intone, 
Ay,  all  things  whereon  my  glory  is  shaken 
Murmur  "  Endymion  !  " 

4- 
AT !     The  black  earth  brightens,  the  Sea  creeps  near 

When  I  swim  from  the  sunset's  shadowy  portal ; 
But  he  will  not  see,  and  he  will  not  hear, 

Though  to  hear  and  see  were  to  be  immortal : 
Pale  as  a  star  and  cold  as  a  stone, 

Dim  as  my  ghost  in  a  sleeping  lake, 
In  an  icy  vision  he  lieth  alone, 

And  I  sigh  "  Awake  ! 
Wake,  Endymion,  wake  and  be  t 
Divine,  divine,  for  the  love  of  me  !  " 
And  my  odorous  breath  on  his  lids  I  shake  :* 
"  Endymion,  Endymion ! 
Awaken,  awaken!" 
But  Zeus  sitteth  cold  on  his  cloud-shrouded  throne, 

And  heareth  my  moan, 

And  his  stern  lips  form  not  the  hope-forsaken 
Name  of  Endymion. 


IRIS   THE  RAINBOW.  63 


VIII. 
IRIS    THE    RAINBOW. 


'  TV  /T  ID  the  cloud-enshrouded  haze 
•!•*•»•     Of  Olumpos  I  arise, 
With  the  full  and  rainy  gaze 

Of  Apollo  in  mine  eyes ; 
But  I  shade  my  dazzled  glance 

With  my  dripping  pinions  white 
Where  the  sunlight  sparkles  dance 

In  a  many-tinctured  light : 
My  foot  upon  the  woof 

Of  a  fleecy  cloudlet  small, 
I  glimmer  thro'  the  roof 

Of  the  paven  banquet-hall, 
And  a  soft  pink  radiance  dips 

Thro'  the  floating  mists  divine, 
Touching  eyes  and  cheeks  and  lips 

Of  the  mild-eyed  gods  supine, 
And  the  pinky  odor  rolls 

Round  their  foreheads,  while  I  stain, 
With  a  blush  like  wine,  the  bowls 

Of  foam-crusted  porcelain : 
Till  the  whole  calm  place  has  caught 

A  deep  gleam  of  rosy  fire  — 
When  I  darken  to  the  thought 

In  the  eyes  of  Zeus  the  Sire. 


64  THE    UNDERTONES. 

2. 
Then  Zeus,  arising,  stoops 

O'er  the  ledges  of  the  skies, 
Looking  downward,  thro'  the  loops 

Of  the  starry  tapestries, 
On  the  evident  dark  plain 

Speck'd  with  wood  and  hill  and  stream, 
On  the  wrinkled  tawny  main 

Where  the  ships,  like  snow-flakes,  gleam  ; 
And  with  finger  without  swerve, 

Swiftly  lifted,  swiftly  whirl'd, 
He  draws  a  magic  curve 

O'er  the  cirrus  of  the  world ; 
When  wijh  waving  wings  display'd, 

On  the  Sun-god's  threshold  bright 
I  upleap,  and  seem  to  fade 

In  a  humid  flash  of  light ; 
But  I  plunge  thro'  vapors  dim 

To  the  dark  low-lying  land, 
And  I  tremble,  float,  and  swim, 

On  the  strange  curve  of  the  Hand : 
From  my  wings,  that  drip,  drip,  drip, 

With  cool  rains,  shoot  jets  of  fire, 
As  across  green  capes  I  slip 

With  the  thought  of  Zeus  the  Sire. 

3- 
Thence,  with  drooping  wings  bedew'd, 

Folded  close  about  -my  form, 
I  alight  with  feet  unview'd 

On  the  ledges  of  the  storm ; 
For  a  moment,  cloud-enroll'd, 

Mid  the  murm'rous  rain  I  stand, 
And  with  meteor  eyes  behold 

Vapory  ocean,  misty  land  ; 


ORPHEUS   THE  MUSICIAN.  65 

Till  the  thought  of  Zeus  outsprings 

From  my  ripe  mouth  with  a  sigh, 
And  unto  my  lips  it  clings 

Like  a  shining  butterfly ; 
When  I  brighten,  gleam,  and  glow 

And  my  glittering  wings  unfurl, 
And  the  melting  colors  flow 

To  my  foot  of  dusky  pearl ; 
And  the  ocean  mile  on  mile 

Gleams  thro'  capes  and  straits  and  bays, 
And  the  vales  and  mountains  smile, 

And  the  leaves  are  wet  with  rays,  — 
While  I  wave  the  humid  Bow 

Of  my  wings  with  flash  of  fire, 
And  the  Tempest,  crouch'd  below, 

Knows  the  thought  of  Zeus  the  Sire. 


IX. 

ORPHEUS   THE    MUSICIAN 

I  SAT  of  old  beside  a  stream  new-born 
From  loamy  loins  of  mountains  cold, 
And  it  was  garrulous  of  dreams  forlorn 
And  visions  old : 

Wherefore  the  legends  of  the  woods  and  caves 
With  that  faint  melody  were  blended  ; 

And  as  the  stream  slid  down  to  ocean-waves, 
I  comprehended. 


66  THE   UNDERTONES. 

Into  a  dreary  silence  dim  and  deep 

I  sank  with  drowsy  sighs  and  nods  : 

Then  sang  —  my  blue  eyes  dark  and  wise  from  sleep 
The  birth  of  gods.  — 

A  gleaming  shoulder  cut  the  stream,  and  lo  ! 

I  saw  the  glistening  Naiad  rise : 
She  floated,  like  a  lily  white  as  snow, 

With  half-closed  eyes. 

And  suddenly,  thronging  the  boughs  around, 
Came  forest  faces  strange  and  glad, 

That  droopt  moist  underlips  and  drank  the  sound 
Divinely  sad. 

Far  dawn  the  glade,  where  heavy  shadows  slept, 

Stole,  purple-stained  by  the  vine, 
Silenus,  —  thro'  whose  blood  my  music  crept 

Like  wondrous  wine : 

Tiptoe,  like  one  who  fears  to  break  a  spell, 
He  came,  with  eyeballs  blank  as  glass  — 

Not  drawing  breath  till,  at  my  feet,  he  fell 
Prone  on  the  grass. 

Then,  leaning  forked  chin  upon  his  hand, 

He  listen'd,  dead  to  tipsy  strife, 
And  lo  !  his  face  grew  smooth  and  soft  and  bland 

With  purer  life. 

Goat-footed  fauns  and  satyrs  one  by  one, 

With  limbs  upon  the  greensward  thrown, 

Gather'd,  and  darken'd  round  me  in  the  sun, 
Like  shapes  of  stone  : 


ORPHEUS   THE  MUSICIAN.  67 

Between  the  sunset  and  the  green  hillside 

Quaint  pygmy  spirits  linger'd  bright, 
Till  heaven's  white  eyes  swam  dewy,  opening  wide 

To  the  delight,  — 

While  sunlight  redden'd,  dying,  and  below 
All  heark'd  —  like  shapes  upon  a  cup, 

By  skied  Here,  in  the  ambrosial  glow, 
Held  rosily  up. 

Then  twilight  duskly  gloam'd  upon  the  place, 

Full  of  sweet  odor  and  cool  shade, 
But  music  made  a  lamp  of  every  face 

Ai  the  forest-glade : 

Till  swiftly  swam,  in  showers  of  pearly  beams, 

Selene  to  her  azure  arc, 
Scattering  silence,  light,  and  dewy  dreams 

On  eyelids  dark. 

The  music  sadden'd,  and  the  greenwood  stirr'd, 

The  moonlight  clothed  us  in  its  veil, 
As  stooping  down  the  dove-eyed  goddess  heard, 

Smiled,  and  grew  pale  : 

For  as  they  listen'd,  satyrs,  nymphs,  and  fauns 

Conceived  their  immortality  — 
Yea,  the  weird  spirits  of  the  woods  and  lawns, 

Gross,  vile,  to  see  — 

Whence  her  pure  light  disturb'd  them,  and  they  strove 
To  shake  away  the  sweet  strange  charm  ; 

But  the  light  brighten'd,  shaken  from  above 
With  pearly  arm. 


68  THE   UNDERTONES. 

They  could  not  fly,  they  could  not  cry  nor  speak, 
It  held  them  like  a  hand  of  strength,  — 

They  hid  their  faces,  wild,  abash'd,  and  weak, 
And  writhed  full  length. 

The  Naiad  lifted  up  her  dewy  chin, 

And  knew,  and  saw  the  light  with  love, 

Made  peaceful  by  a  purity  akin 
To  hers  above. 

And  countless  beauteous  spirits  of  the  shade 
Knew  their  own  souls  and  felt  no  fear ; 

While  Echo,  nestling  in  her  thyme-cave,  made 
An  answer  clear. 

Till,  when  I  ceased  to  sing,  the  satyr-crew 

Rush'd  back  to  riot  and  carouse  ; 
Self-fearful  faces  blushingly  withdrew 

Into  leafy  boughs ; 

Lastly,  Silenus  to  his  knees  upcrept, 

Rubtyd  eyelids  swollen  like  the  vine, 

Stared  blankly  round  him,  vow'd  that  he  had  slept, 
And  bawl'd  for  wine. 


POLYPHEME^  S  PASSION.  69 

X. 

POLYPHEME'S    PASSION. 

HO,  Silenus  !  —  no  one  here  ! 
The  kitchen  empty,  the  flocks  in  stalls, 
The  red  fire  flickering  over  the  walls, 
And  —  a  young  kid  spitted  —  dainty  cheer  ! 
Ho,  Silenus  !  —  tipsy  old  revelier, 
Soft-zone-unloosener,  bright-hair-disheveller, 
Where  art  thou  hiding,  you  tipsy  old  hound  you, 
With  thy  beard  of  a  goat  and  thine  eyes  of  a  lamb  ! 

SILENUS. 

Ho,  Cyclops ! 

POLYPHEME. 

He  mocks  me  !    Where  are  you,  confound  you  ? 

SILENUS. 

Patience,  sweet  master,  here  I  am  !  — 

POLYPHEME. 

Rise  !  or  with  my  great  fist  I  '11  put  an  end  to  thee ; 
The  dregs  of  my  great  flagon  have  been  warming  thee — 
Thou  'rt  drunk,  sow-ears.     I  find  there  's  no  reforming 

thee, 

Tho'  six  round  moons  I  've  tried  to  be  a  friend  to  thee. 
Once  more  divinely  warming  those  old  veins, 
Chirping  like  grasshoppers  at  every  pore, 


70  THE   UNDERTONES. 

Foaming  as  warm  as  milk  among  thy  brains, 
Gushing  like  sunshine  in  thine  heart's  dry  core, 

Runs  the  pink  nectar  of  my  vines.  It  stains, 
Flowing  from  that  bald  head,  this  grassy  floor  — 

Too  sweet  for  earth  to  drink,  unmeet  for  thee, 

Fit  only  to  be  quaffed  by  gods  like  me  ! 

SILENUS. 

Cyclops  ! 

POLYPHEME. 

Jump  up,  then,  quickly.     Nay,  no  more. 
Follow  me  to  this  rocky  eminence, 
Cool-cushion'd  with  the  yellow  moss,  from  whence 

We  can  at  ease  behold 

The  cloud-stain'd  greenness  of  the  ocean  sleek, 
Rounding  its  glassy  waves  into  the  creek, 

Speckled  with  sparkling  jewels  manifold, 
And,  far  away,  one  melting  patch  of  gold. 

Now,  sit  !  —  Nay,  nearer,  higher  —  here,  above 
My  shoulder.     Turn  thy  face  to  mine,  Silenus  ! 
Fear  not  :  —  being  fill'd  with  the  sweet  milk  of  Venus, 

Thou  'rt  a  fit  counsellor  for  one  in  love  ; 
And,  as  I  'm  in  a  talking  humor,  why  — 
Suppose  we  chat  a  little  at  our  leisure. 


With  pleasure  ! 
The  subject  ? 

POLYPHEME. 

One  alone  beneath  the  sky, 
Old  man,  is  worthy  of  the  conversation 
And  serious  consideration 

Of  such  a  god  as  I  ! 
Now,  guess  the  name  of  that  sweet  thing  ? 


POLYPHEME' S  PASSION.  71 

SILENUS. 

With  ease. 

Bacchus,  the  god  to  whom  these  aged  knees 
Bend  gloriously  impotent  so  often, 
And  in  whose  luscious  pool 
I  dip  hot  mouth  and  eyes,  and  soak  and  soften 
The  yoke  of  thy  strong  rule. 

POLYPHEME. 

A  thing  a  thousand  times  more  beautiful ! 

SILENUS. 

I  know  no  thing  more  beautiful  than  he 
When,  dripping  odors  cool, 

Deep-purpled,  like  a  honey-bosom'd  flower 
For  which  the  red  mouth  buzzes  like  a  bee, 
He  bursts  from  thy  deep  caverns  gushingly, 

And  throws  his  pleasure  round  him  in  a  shower, 
And  sparkles,  sparkles,  like  the  eyes  that  see, 
In  sunshine,  murmuring  for  very  glee 

And  bursting  foamy  bubbles  until  sour 
Lips  tremble  into  moist  anticipation 
Of  his  rich  exultation ! 

POLYPHEME. 

Has  little  Bacchus,  whom  ye  praise  so,  power 

To  unnerve  these  mighty  limbs,  make  this  one  Eye 
Rain  impotent  tears,  hurl  this  gigantic  bulk 
Down  on  its  stubborn  knees  —  nay,  make  me  skulk 

And  fume  and  fret,  and  simper  oaths,  and  sigh, 
Like  tiny  mortal  milking-maids  who  sulk 

In  dairies,  frothing  yellow  like  their  cream  ? 
Could  Bacchus,  once  let  loose  to  fight  and  fly, 

Do  all  these  things  to  sinewy  Polypheme  ? 


72  THE   UNDERTONES. 

SILENUS. 

Assuredly ! 

POLYPHEME. 

By  this  right  hand,  you  lie  !  — 
I  am  a  god,  great-statured,  strong,  and  born 

Out  of  Poseidon's  nervy  loins  divine  ! 
I  laugh  the  wrath  of  Zeus  himself  to  scorn  ; 
And  when  I  rise  erect  on  ^Etna's  horn 

My  shadow  on  the  faint  sea-hyaline 
Falls  like  a  cloud  wherein  the  winds  drop  still 
And  white-wing'd  ships  move  slowly  without  will. 
Shall  bulk  so  wondrous  and  so  grand  as  mine 
Yield  to  the  miserable  god  of  wine  ? 

SILENUS. 

Certainly  not. 

POLYPHEME. 

Never  !  —  by  Pallas'  spear, 

At  whose  sharp  touch  the  plump  god  leaps  and  flies, 
While  startled  Revel  shrieks  with  haggard  eyes  ! 

Never,  by  Hermes,  whom  the  drunken  fear, 
But  whose  quick  fingers  pilfer  not  the  wise  ! 

SILENUS. 

Whom  shall  we  praise,  O  Cyclops  ? 

POLYPHEME. 

Thou  shalt  hear  — 
Tell  me,  didst  thou  ever  see  a,  — 
Ever  hear  a,  ever  hear  a,  — 
Either  far  away  or  near,  a  — 
Nymph  so  sweet  as  Galatea  ? 


Never ! 


POLYPHEME^  S  PASSION.  73 

SILENUS. 

POLYPHEME. 


'T  is  false,  old  man  !  she  is  not  fair ;  — 

Those  weeds  that  under  ocean  rot  at  ease 
Into  dark  dreams  o'  the  flowery  earth,  and  there 
Put  purples  in  the  sea-nymph's  sunny  hair 

Are  fairer :  she  is  changeable  as  these. 
She  is  as  wanton  as  the  perfumed  fays 

That  dimple  on  the  windless  sea,  and  dally, 

Musically, 
With  the  puff  d  sails  of  ships  becalm'd  for  days. 

SILENUS. 

True,  Cyclops,  she  is  fickle  ;  and  by  her 
Whose  amorous  breath  blew  the  Greek  host  to  Troy, 
I  have  seen  fairer  ! 

POLYPHEME. 

Dotard!  Driveller! 
Not  her  the  false  Idalian  shepherd-boy, 

With  silken  string,  like  a  tame  heifer,  led  — 
Nay,  not  lush  Aphrodite,  whose  blue  eyne, 

Pink-lidded,  smiled  on  their  unhallow'd  bed  — 
Is  half  so  fair,  so  precious,  so  divine, 
As  Galatea ! 

SILENUS. 
Exactly  what  I  said. 

POLYPHEME. 

Her  voice  hath  gentle  sweetness,  borrowed 
From  soft  tide-lispings  on  the  pebbly  sand, 


74  THE   UNDERTONES. 

'T  is  like  the  brooding  doves  in  junipers  ; 

White  as  a  shell  of  ocean  is  her  hand, 
Wherein,  like  ocean  sound,  the  pink  blood  stirs ! 
Her  hair  excels  the  fruitage  of  the  beech 
Wherein  the  sun  runs  liquid  gleam  on  gleam  ; 
Her  breasts  are  like  two  foamy  bowls  of  cream, 
A  red  strawberry  in  the  midst  of  each  ; 

And  the  soft  gold-down  on  her  silken  chin 
Is  like  the  under-side  of  a  ripe  peach  — 

A  dimple  dipping  honeyly  therein  ! 

SILENUS, 

Her  eyes  —  v 

POLYPHEME. 

Profane  them  not !  —  For  their  sweet  fire  is 
Wondrous  and  various  as  the  Bow 
Drawn  over  rainy  ledges  dripping  low 
By  many-color'd  Iris  — 

From  whose  bright  end,  plunged  ^:he  dark  waters  under, 
Woven  with  the  tapestries  of  her  sea  cave, 
And  dying  hue  by  hue  on  the  green  wave, 
They  may  have  drunk  a  portion  of  their  wonder. 
But  oh,  what  tongue  can  tell 
Their  glory  inexpressible  ? 
You  seem  to  see  the  music  of  the  ocean 
Folded  within  them,  as  within  a  shell, 
And  gently  stirring  with  a  violet  motion, 
Until  it  drops  unto  the  lips,  and  there 
Flutters  in  perfumed  accents  on  the  air  ! 
Nor  this  alone.     They  change  as  the  sea  changes, 
In  hues  as  various  as  the  ringdove's  dyes : 
Whatsoever  sweet  and  strange  is 
Flashes  across  them  with  a  quick  surprise. 


POLYPHEME'S  PASSION.  75 

Now,  in  their  troubled  orbs  rise  multiform 

Wild  pictures  of  sky-tempest  and  sea-storm  ; 

And  her  wild  eyes  droop  brightly  on  her  breast 

Till  it  is  troubled  like  a  thing  distrest ; 

But  in  their  softest  mood 

You  watch  the  pale  soul  tremulously  brood 

On  those  bright  orbs  whose  fire  the  dark  sea  cools, 

And  there  it  trembles,  as  the  moonlight  flows 

On  seas  just  stirr'd  by  their  own  deep  repose 

And  throbbing,  throbbing,  into  silver  pools  ! 

SILENUS. 

O  eloquent  Cyclops,  pause,  and  breathe  a  space  !  — 
Few  eyes  save  thine,  few  eyes  of  earth,  have  plainly 
Seen  this  immortal  Galatea's  face  ; 
For  she  thou  lovest  is  of  that  fair  race 
Whom  mortal  vision  dreams  of,  but  seeks  vainly  — 
For  they  comb  and  they  comb 

Their  yellow  locks, 
Under  the  foam, 

Among  the  weedy  rocks  ! 
And  they  sing  unseen 
In  their  sea-caves  green, 
And  gaze  at  the  white  sun  overhead 

Whose  pale  ray  saddens  their  dripping  curls, 
.    Or  the  moon  that  glimm'ring  in  ocean's  bed 
Leaves  her  motion  forever  in  pools  of  pearls  ! 

POLYPHEME. 

Chirrup  not,  wine-sponge  !  — Am  not  I  a  god? 
Cannot  this  eye  peer  to  Olumpos'  helm  ? 
Does  not  the  great  sea,  trembling  at  my  nod, 
Hush  itself  humbly  around  this  my  realm  ? 


76  THE   UNDERTONES. 

SILENUS. 

It  does,  O  Cyclops  ! 

POLYPHEME. 

Save,  of  course,  when  I 

Hurl  rocks  and  trees  down  on  the  shuddering  ships, 
And,  while  I  loom  above  the  waves,  my  lips 
Roar  terrible  defiance  at  the  sky. 

SILENUS. 
Precisely. 

POLYPHEME. 

Ask  not,  then,  the  when  and  how ; 
But  turn  thine  ancient  gaze 
On  the  broad  wonder  of  my  brow, 
Thence  drop  it,  in  a  natural  amaze, 
Down  the  steep  mountain  to  my  sinewy  feet, 
Round  which  the  lambs,  as  small  as  snow-flakes,  bleat ; 
Now,  tell  me  —  am  I  fair  ? 

SILENUS. 

Most  fair ! 

POLYPHEME. 

Thy  fears 
Lie  to  my  strength  a  hollow  lie,  Silenus  ! 

SILENUS. 

By  all  the  love  that  there  exists  between  us, 

By  doves  that  perch  on  Bacchus'  vine-wreath'd  ears, 

I  swear  thou  art  most  beautiful  1 


POLYPHEME'S  PASSION.  77 

POLYfHEME. 

Again : 

Have  those  blurr'd  eyeballs  noticed  that  of  late 
Mine  air  has  grown  more  solemn,  more  sedate, 
More  bountiful  to  those  I  hold  in  chain 
To  watch  my  flocks,  and  more,  compassionate  ; 
As  if  I  struggled  underneath  the  weight 
Of  some  indefinite  pain  ? 
That  I  have  learn'd  to  tremble  and  to  blush, 
To  droop  this  eyelid  modestly,  to  flush 
All  over  at  the  tiniest  whispering  sound, 
To  pick  small  dainty  steps  upon  the  ground 
As  if  I  saw  and  seeing  fear'd  to  crush 
Some  crawling  insect  or  the  crimson-crown'd 
Small  daisy-flower  that,  whensoe'er  I  pass, 
Shuts  up  its  little  leaves  upon  the  grass 
And  thinks  the  shadowy  eve  has  stolen  down ! 

SILENUS. 

Cyclops  !  —  These  things  I  saw,  but  fear'd  to  question  j 

Nay,  with  a  blush  I  own  it  —  do  not  frown  !  — 

I  set  thy  trouble  down  as  indigestion. 

For  neither  unmilk'd  kids,  nor  lambs  stall-fed, 

Nor  sucking-swine  with  pippins  in  their  teeth, 

Nor  ox-thighs  with  green  herbs  engarlanded, 

Nor  foamy  curds  wherein  hot  apples  seethe, 

Nay,  not  the  parsley-flavor'd  tongues  of  sheep, 

Could  tempt  o'  late  thy  dainty  appetite  ; 

But  lying  on  the  mountain  out  of  sight 

Of  melancholy  thou  hast  drunken  deep  ; 

While  down  among  the  yellow  pastures  moaning 

With  lambs  new-yean'd,  where  thy  cool  streamlets  run, 

We  saw  thee  loom  above  us,  mighty  one  ! 

And  heard  thee,  like  the  monstrous  seas  intoning, 

Melodiously  groaning ! 


78  THE   UNDERTONES. 

POLYPHEME. 

Ay  me  !  ay  me ! 

SILENUS. 

Be  calm,  sweet  Polypheme ! 
The  eagle  poised  o'er  yonder  cropping  lamb 
Flew  scared,  at  that  big  cry. 

POLYPHEME. 

Ay  me !  I  am 

Lost,  swallow'd  up,  absorbed  into  a  dream  ! 
Thro'  the  swift  current  of  my  frame  gigantic 
Eddies  a  frantic 

Consuming  fire.     I  am  not  what  I  seem. 
For  Galatea  I  refuse  all  foojl, 
For  Galatea  I  grow  weak  and  wild 
And  petulant-featured  as  a  sickly  child  ; 
For  Galatea  I,  in  desperate  mood, 
Seek  out  green  places  in  this  solitude, 
And  close  my  eyes,  and  think  I  am  a  curl 
Tingling,  tingling,  lightly 
Against  the  snow-heap'd  bosom  swelling  whitely ! 

SILENUS. 

One  should  not  break  his  heart  for  any  girl. 

POLYPHEME. 

Ay  me !  I  close  my  eyes  in  a  sweet  woe, 

And  dream  that  I  am  little,  fair,  and  sweet, 

For  a  small  goddess's  embraces  meet, 

Nor  huge,  nor  rough.     It  was  not  always  so  ! 

Of  old,  Silenus,  this  great  awful  Me 

Was  swoll'n  with  glory  at  the  contemplation 

Of  its  enormity  in  yonder  sea  ; 

I  revell'd  in  the  roar  and  consternation, 


POLYPHEME'S  PASSION.  79 

When,  grasping  rocks  with  frantic  acclamation, 
Round  this  frowning,  ^tna-crowning  head  I  whirl'd 

them, 

Tremendously,  stupendously,  and  hurl'd  them 
On  the  passing  fleets  below  ; 
And  from  under  came  the  thunder  of  vessels  crush'd 

asunder, 
And  the  shriek,  faint  and  weak,  of  the  mortals  in  their 

wonder, 
And  the  sea  rolled  underneath,  and  the  winds  began  to 

blow, 
And  above  the  desolation,  drunk  with  rage,  I  took  my 

station, 
With  my  waving  arms  expanded  and  my  crimson  eye 

aglow, 

And  to  earth's  reverberation, 
Roar'd  "Ho!  ho!  ho!" 

SILENUS. 

Cyclops  !  sweet  Cyclops !  — 

POLYPHEME. 

Fear  not ! 

I  am  as  weak  as  the  eagle's  callow  young ; 
Yet  listen,  mild  old  man,  and  interfere  not. 
One  summer-day,  when  earth  and  heaven  rung 
With  thunders,  and  the  hissing  lightning  stung 
With  forked  meteor  tongue 
The  green  smooth  living  ocean  till  it  shriek'd  — 
'I  stood  aloft  on  ^Etna's  horn  and  wreak'd 
My  cruel  humor  with  a  monstrous  glee  : 
When  lo  !  from  out  the  rainy  void  did  flit 
Bright  Iris,  and  with  tremulous  foot  alit 
On  this  my  mountain,  touching  even  me 


8o  THE   UNDERTONES. 

With  her  faint  glory  :  for  a  moment,  she 

Paused  shudd'ring  high  above  me  :  then  with  fleet 

Footstep  slid  downward  till  she  reach'd  my  feet ; 

And  there,  with  many-tinctured  wings  serene, 

She  waved  the  seas  to  silence,  and,  beguiled 

By  her  mild  message,  the  dark  ocean  smiled  — 

A  palpitating  lapse  of  oily  green, 

With  silvery  glimmers  here  and  there  between 

The  shadows  of  the  clouds  that,  dewy  and  mild, 

Parted  and  flutter'd  :  —  when,  with  radiant  head 

Plunging  among  the  bulbous  mists,  she  fled. 

But,  as  the  vapors  fleam'd  away,  behold ! 

I  saw  far  down  upon  the  brown  sea-strand 

A  nymph  who  held  aloft  in  pearly  hand 

A  white-tooth'd  comb,  and  comb'd  her  locks  of  gold 

Over  a  dank  and  shipwreck'd  sailor-lad,  — 

On  whose  damp  eyelids  a  faint  radiance  lay, 

Robb'd  from  some  little  homestead  far  away, 

Some  silent  hearth  that  wearily  would  wait, 

For  that  faint  smile  which  left  it  desolate, 

And  hush  itself  and  watch  and  yearn  and  pray. 

Oh  !  tenderly  she  comb'd  her  locks  of  gold, 

Over  that  gently-sleeping  sailor-lad, 

Stretch'd  'mid  the  purple  dulse  and  rockweed  cold ; 

And  all  the  while  she  sang  a  ditty  sad, 

To  deep  division  of  the  wave  that  roll'd 

Up  to  her  feet,  like  a  huge  snake  that  springs 

At  two  bright  butterflies  with  golden  wings  : 

Marinere,  O  Marinere, 

Waken,  waken ! 

Sleep-o'ertaken, 
Look  upon  me,  with  no  fear, 
Look,  and  see,  and  hear : 


POLYPHEME^S  PASSION.  8r 

Underneath  the  white-tooth'd  waves, 

Sleep  your  comrades  in  their  caves  ; 

Coral  grottoes  are  their  bed, 

Purple  plants  stir  overhead, 

All  around  black  weeds  are  twined, 

Frozen  still  without  a  wind  ; 

And  the  sea-nymphs  in  distress 

Pluck  dark  flowers  all  odorless, 

Growing  deep  in  caverns  clear, 

Gently  to  bestrew  their  bier. 

Under  the  sea 

They  sleep  —  ah  me  ! 

They  have  slept  for  many  a  year. 

Marinere,  O  Marinere, 

Wake  not,  wake  not, 

Slumber  break  not, 
Close  your  eyelids  with  no  fear, 
Do  not  see,  nor  hear ! 
Far  above  the  silence  deep, 
Where  your  gentle  comrades  sleep, 
Rolls  the  sea  and  foams  the  storm, 
Horrors  thicken,  terrors  swarm, 
And  the  sea-nymphs,  lightning-led, 
Flash  about  white-garmented ; 
But  below  the  Storm -god's  frown, 
Sleep  the  shipwreck'd  fathoms  down  — 
Ocean-flowers  are  on  the  bier, 
Foam-bells  hang  in  every  ear ! 
Under  the  sea 
They  sleep  —  ah  me ! 
They  shall  sleep  for  many  a  year. 

SILENUS. 
That  was  the  song  she  sang  ? 


82  THE   UNDERTONES. 

POLYPHEME. 

It  was.     But  ill 
These  tender  accents  fill 
This  rocky  breast,  whose  distant  roar 
Frightens  those  white  waves  seaward  from  the  shore. 
For  they  trembled,  tinkling,  twining, 
For  melodious  combining, 
While  her  yellow  locks  fell  shining 

To  her  knees, 

While  the  Storm  with  bright  eyes  glistening, 
Thro'  its  cloud-veil  looking  at  her, 
Delay'd  breathlessly  and  listening 

On  the  ledges  of  the  seas : 
And  in  the  sun  she  sat  her, 
While  her  voice  went  pitter-patter, 
Pitter-patter,  like  the  clatter 

Of  bright  rain  on  boughs  of  trees  ! 
Then  ho  !  with  my  great  stride, 
Down  the  steep  mountain  side, 
I  sprang  unto  her,  with  mine  arms  extended ! 
Her  bright  locks  gleam'd  afraid, 
Like  a  sunbeam  trapt  in  shade, 
In  my  deep  shadow,  and  the  music  ended : 
And  she  rose  erect  to  fly, 
Panting,  moaning,  and  her  cry 
Met  the  lifted  cry  of  Ocean,  and  they  blended ! 
While  earth  reel'd  under, 

Downward  I  bore, 
With  step  of  thunder, 

On  to  the  shore  ; 
And  in  shrieking  amaze, 

With  eyes  fasten'd  in  fear  — 
Like  a  star's  firm  gaze 
When  a  cloud  draws  near  — 


POLYPHEME'S  PASSION.  83 

On  the  horror  that  came 
With  an  eye  of  flame, 
She  leapt  to  the  water, 

All  woebegone  ; 
And  her  bright  locks  shone 
And  tript  and  distraught  her, 
But  the  water  caught  her 

And  push'd  her  on  ! 
From  billow  to  billow, 
With  wild  locks  streaming 

And  tangling  oft ; 
From  billow  to  billow, 
Dark-green,  or  gleaming 

Like  doves'  wings  soft, 
From  billow  to  billow, 
Panting  and  screaming, 
With  white  hands  beaming 

And  waving  aloft ! 
Then,  coming  hideous 

On  to  the  tide, 
I  spurn'd  the  perfidious 

Foam  aside, 
And  follow'd  her,  dashing 

Thro'  storm  sublime, 
Flashing,  crashing, 
Splashing-splashing 

On  the  seaweed's  slippery  slime  ! 
The  billows  clomb  up, 
With  flash  of  foam  up, 

My  loins  and  thighs  ; 
Till  they  gleam 'd  and  fleam'd, 
With  clangor  and  anger, 
And  around  me  upstream'd 

With  their  wild  white  eyes  ! 


84  THE   UNDERTONES. 

Till  panting,  choking, 
Dripping  and  soaking, 
With  nostrils  smoking, 
I  halted,  spitting, 

Spurting,  chin-deep, 
And  saw  her  sitting 
Where  gulls  were  flitting 

Far  out  on  the  deep ; 
And  all  around  her  with  gentle  motion 
One  smooth  soft  part  of  the  murmurous  ocean 

Had  gone  to  sleep  ! 
Then  waving  her  hands, 

And  shaking  her  locks, 
To  the  ocean  sands, 

To  the  purple  rocks 
Under  the  foam, 

To  the  sea-caves  brown, 
She  sank  to  her  home, 

Down  !  down  !  down  !  down  ! 
And  the  sea  grew  black 
In  her  shining  track, 

And  the  waters  green 
Darken'd  afar ; 

And  the  one  thing  seen 
Was  the  steadfast  star 
Of  my  round  Eye  red, 

Rolling  immense 

With  a  pain  intense 
In  my  rocky  head, 
Mid  the  white,  foam  wreathing 
Around  wind -led, 
And  the  great  sea  seething 
Down  to  deep  breathing, 
Like  a  monster  panting,  on  its  sandy  bed  ! 


POLYPHEME^  S  PASSION.  85 

SILENUS. 

Most  musical  Cyclops  ! 

POLYPHEME. 

Hush  !  —  Unto  the  beach 

I  wearily  strode,  with  great  head  bow'd,  and  dragg'd 
Foot-echoes  after  me  ;  and  with  no  speech, 
On  yonder  shore,  weedy  and  wet  and  cragg'd, 
I  stood,  and  in  an  agony  of  pain 
Look'd  out  with  widening  eyeball  on  the  main. 
Lo !  far  away  a  white  wind  glided  dim 
O'er  the  cloud-cover'd  bright'ning  ocean-rim, 
And  violet  shadows  here  and  there  were  trail'd 
Over  the  waters  :  then  behold  the  sun 
Flasht  pale  across  the  waste,  and  one  by  one, 
Like  sea-gulls  dripping  rain,  rose  ships  white-sail'd. 
All  else  was  silence,  save  monotonous  moan 
Of  the  broad-chested  billows,  till  the  warm 
Light  kindled  all  things,  and  I  loomed  alone  — 
The  one  huge  cloud  remaining  of  the  storm ; 
And  in  the  awfulness  of  that  strange  hour 
A  change  came  over  my  big  throbbing  breast, 
And  the  soft  picture  of  the  calm  had  power 
To  move  my  mountainous  bulk  with  vague  unrest!  — 

SILENUS. 

Weep  not,  O  Cyclops  —  lest  thy  tears  should  roll 
Down  oceanward  and  brain  the  grazing  sheep ! 

POLYPHEME. 

Ay  me,  ay  me,  the  passion  in  my  soul ! 
Ay  me,  her  glory  haunts  me,  and  I  weep  !  — 
O,  I  would  give  away  the  world  to  be 
As  soft,  as  sweet,  as  fleecy-limb'd  as  she, 


5  THE   UNDERTONES. 

- 

As  tiny  and  as  tender  and  as  white 

As  her  mild  loveliness  ! 

With  two  soft  eyes  such  as  mere  men  possess, 

Two  pretty  little  dewy  eyes,  that  might 

Interpret  me  aright ! 

SILENUS. 

Amazement !  —  Polypheme,  whom  vast  Poseidon 

Spawn'd  upon  Thoosa  in  the  salted  brine, 

Thou  who  canst  strangle  fleets,  and  sit  astride  on 

^Etna  and  roar  thine  origin  divine  ! 

Wrong  not  thyself,  thy  beauty,  and  thy  sire  ! 

See  !  where  thy  mighty  shadow  stretches  wide 

Down  the  steep  mountain-side, 

And  see  !  that  eyeball  of  immortal  fire  ! 

Had  wanton  Helen,  Paris'  love-sick  toy, 

Beheld  thee,  Polypheme, 

Hill-haunting  Echo  had  not  found  a  theme 

In  ruin  and  the  ten  years'  war  of  Troy. 

POLYPHEME. 

And  is  it  so  ? 

SILENUS. 

By  Ganymede  bright-eyed, 
By-by- 

POLYPHEME. 

Enough  —  let  us  return.     I  stood, 
When  she  had  flown,  in  meditative  mood  ; 
Then,  raising  up  my  resinous  hands,  I  cried : 
"  O  thou  from  whose  huge  loins  I  darkling  came, 
King  of  all  ocean  and  its  wondrous  races, 
Return,  return,  the  nymph  to  my  embraces, 
Or,  thro'  thy  lips  ooze-dripping,  name  her  name !  " 


POLYPHEME'S  PASSION.  87 

And  o'er  the  sands  did  a  low  murmur  creep, 
Whispering,  'Galatea;'  and,  deep-pain'd, 
I  vaguely  knew,  like  one  who  dreams  in  sleep, 
She  was  a  goddess  of  the  sacred  deep, 
Not  to  be  lightly  woo'd  or  roughly  gain'd. 

SILENUS. 

0  pitiful !  and  you  — 

POLYPHEME. 

In  the  dim  birth 

Of  the  strange  love  that  stirs  my  hid  blood's  fountains, 
As  unborn  earthquakes  trouble  springs  in  mountains, 

1  look'd  abroad  upon  the  fair  green  earth  ; 

And  lo,  all  things  that  lived,  all  things  that  stirr'd, 

Unto  the  very  daisy  closing  up 

In  my  great  shade  its  crimson-tippe'd  cup, 

And  the  small  lambs,  and  every  little  bird, 

Seem'd  to  abhor  and  dread,  avoid  and  fear  me  ; 

And  in  an  agony  of  hate  for  all, 

I  cried,  "  How  can  a  thing  so  sweet,  so  small, 

So  gentle,  love  me  —  or  be  happy  near  me  ?  " 

Whereon  I  sadly  clomb  the  cliffs  and  made 

A  looking-glass  of  yonder  ocean,  where 

Startled  by  my  long  shade 

The  silver-bellied  fishes  rose  afraid ; 

But  with  a  lover's  hand  I  smooth'd  my  hair 

To  sleekness,  parting  it  with  care, 

And  husht  the  rugged  sorrow  of  my  brow  — 

Then,  stooping  softly  o'er  the  dimpled  mirror, 

I  shaped  my  face  to  a  sweet  smile  —  as  now  ! 

SILENUS. 

O  agony !  help,  help,  ye  gods  1    O  terror ! 
Hide  me  1 


88  THE   UNDERTONES. 

POLYPHEME. 

What  ails  thee  ?    Ha ! 

SILENUS. 

O  Ocean's  child- 

Cyclops  !  My  heart,  with  admiration  rent, 
Fainted  and  cried  with  its  deep  ravishment 
Because  you  look'd  so  beauteous  when  you  smiled ! 

POLYPHEME. 

Thou  liest !  —  and  (ay  me)  you  shrunk  in  fear 

As  silly  younglings  shrink  at  something  hateful ; 

Yet  tremble  not :  —  to  a  lorn  lover's  ear, 

E'en  flattery  so  base  as  thine  is  grateful. 

Ay  me,  ay  me  —  I  am 

A  great  sad  mountain  in  whose  depths  doth  roam 

My  small  soul,  wandering  like  a  gentle  lamb 

That  bleats  from  place  to  place  and  has  no  home  ; 

But  prison'd  among  rocks 

Can  just  behold  afar 

A  land  where  honey-flowing  rivers  are 

And  gentle  shepherds  with  their  gentle  flocks  : 

For  even  so  my  timid  soul  looks  round 

On  beauteous  living  things  —  that  creep  and  seem, 

To  this  vast  Eye,  like  insects  on  the  ground  — 

From  whose  companionship  't  is  shut  and  bound 

Within  this  mountain  of  a  Polypheme  ! 

SILENUS. 

Most  melancholy  Cyclops,  be  consoled ! 

POLYPHEME. 

My  heart  is  like  those  blubbery  crimson  blots 
That  float  on  the  dank  tide  in  oozy  spots  ; 


POLYPHEME'S  PASSION.  89 

It  is  as  mild  as  patient  flocks  in  fold. 

I  am  as  lonely  as  the  snowy  peak 

Of  Dardonos,  and,  like  an  eagle,  Love 

Stoops  o'er  me,  helpless,  from  its  eyrie  above, 

And  grasps  that  lamb,  my  Soul,  within  its  beak. 

Nay,  on  the  margin  of  the  waters  where 

She  comes  and  goes  like  a  swift  gull,  I  sit 

Above  these  flocks,  and  rake  my  little  wit 

To  pipe  upon  the  misty  mountain  air 

Ditties  as  tender  as  a  shepherd  man, 

Perch'd  on  a  little  hillock,  half  asleep, 

Surrounded  by  his  silly  stainless  sheep, 

Pipes  with  mild  pleasure  and  no  definite  plan 

In  fields  Arcadian.  \He  sings. 

White  is  the  little  hand  of  Galatea, 

That  combs  her  yellow  locks  with  dainty  care  ; 
Bright  is  the  fluttering  hand  of  Galatea, 

When  tangled,  like  a  dove,  in  sunny  hair. 
Sweet  is  Galatea  —  sweet  is  Galatea  — 

Ay,  so  sweet ! 
Complete  is  Galatea,  from  her  feathery  fingers  fair 

To  her  small  white  mice  of  feet ! 

The  billows  huge  and  hoar  cease  to  rumble  and  to  roar, 
When  the  white  hands  wave  above  them,  like  doves 

that  shine  and  soar, 
And,  as  gentle,  from  the  shore,  I  adore,  and  implore 

Galatea ! 

Ho,  that  these  limbs  were  meet  for  Galatea 
With  soft  pink  kisses  sweetly  to  enfold  ! 
Ho,  had  I  two  small  eyes^  that  Galatea 

Might  there  my  gentle  gentle  heart  behold  ! 
Dear  is  Galatea  —  dear  is  Galatea  — 
Ay,  so  dear ! 


90  THE   UNDERTONES. 

No  peer  has  Galatea,  but  her  bosom  is  so  cold 

And  her  eyes  so  full  of  fear ! 
When  the  great  seas  wildly  rise,  there  is  terror  in  her 

eyes, 
And  she  trembles  in  sweet  wonder,  like  a  bird  that 

storms  surprise,  — 

And  before  my  tender  cries,  and  my  sighs,  swiftly  flies 
Galatea ! 

Under  the  white  sea-storm  sits  Galatea, 

While  overhead  the  sea-birds  scream  in  flocks, 
In  deep-green  darkness  sitteth  Galatea, 

Combing  out  sunshine  from  her  golden  locks  ! 
Fair  sits  Galatea  —  fair  sits  Galatea  — 

Ay,  so  fair ! 
Ho,  there  sits  Galatea,  in  the  shade  of  purple  rocks, 

Mid  the  fountain  of  her  hair  ! 
Ho,  would  I  were  the  waves,  on  whose  crest  the  tempest 

raves, 

So  might  I  still  the  tempest  that  my  raging  bulk  out- 
braves, 

For  the  dark-green  stillness  laves,  and  enslaves,  and 
encaves  Galatea ! 

SILENUS. 

Comfort,  O  Cyclops,  comfort !    There  is  sure 
Some  remedy  for  such  a  wound  as  this  : 
Red  wine,  I  say  again  :  the  plump  God's  kiss 
Is  sweeter  far  than  honey,  rich  and  pure. 

POLYPHEME. 

Alas,  not  he  whose  temples  Artemis 

Bound  with  weird  herbs  and  poison-snakes  that  hiss 

But  sting  not  —  wise  Asclepios  —  could  cure ! 


POLYPHEME^S  PASSION.  91 

Forevermore,  Silenus,  when  my  brain 

Lies  in  a  dream  just  conscious  of  its  pain, 

And  my  full  heart  throbs  tenderly  and  rockingly, 

Far  out  upon  the  bosom  of  the  main 

She  flashes  up,  green-kirtled,  and  laughs  mockingly. 

Thrice  has  her  smile  enticed  me  to  the  chin 

Thro'  the  great  waves  that  round  me  bite  and  bark, 

And  gleam'd  away  and  left  me  in  the  dark. 

Alas,  that  I  must  woo  and  never  win  ! 

Alas,  that  I  am  foul  while  she  is  fair ! 

Alas,  that  this  red  Eye,  my  only  one, 

Like  a  brown  lizard  looking  on  the  sun, 

Turns  green  in  her  bright  mist  of  yellow  hair ! 

SILENUS. 

Majestic  Cyclops  !     Heir  of  the  huge  Sea  ! 
God-like,  —  like  those  great  heavens  that  oversheen  us ! 
One-eyed,  like  the  bright  Day !    Wilt  thou  by  me, 
Thy  servant,  be  advised  ? 

POLYPHEME. 

Speak  on,  Silenus. 

SILENUS. 

Behold  !  —  Beneath  the  many-tinctured  west  hid, 

Fades  Phoibos  crimson-crested, 

And  the  faint  image  of  his  parting  light 

On  the  deep  Sea  broad-breasted 

Fades  glassily  ;  while  down  the  mountain  height 

Behind  us,  slides  the  purple  shadow'd  Night. 

Come  in  !  —  and  from  your  cellar  iced  by  springs 

Drag  forth  the  god  of  wine, 

And  listen  to  him  as  he  chirps  and  sings 

His  songs  delicious,  dulcet,  and  divine : 


92  THE   UNDERTONES. 

Throned  in  the  brain,  magnificently  wise, 
And  blowing  warmly  out  thro'  kindled  eyes 
All  vapors  vapid,  vain,  and  vague. 
Seek  the  god's  counsel,  Cyclops,  I  beseech  thee  : 
'T  is  he  alone,  if  once  his  magic  reach  thee, 
Can  cure  Love's  panting  heat  or  shivering  ague. 

POLYPHEME. 

He  cannot  make  me  fair  ! 

SILENUS. 

Phoo  !  —  He  will  teach  thee 
To  lift  thy  dreamy  gaze  from  the  soft  sod, 
And  rise  erect,  big-hearted,  self-reliant, 
On  ^Etna's  horn,  with  leathern  lungs  defiant  — 
No  minnow-hearted  grampus  of  a  god ! 
And — then  in  the  quick  flush  and  exultation 
Of  that  proud  inspiration, 
Wine  in  his  nostrils,  Polypheme  will  be 
In  .Polypheme's  own  estimation 
A  match  for  any  girl  on  land  or  sea. 
Then,  furiously,  gloriously  rash, 
Grasp  Opportunity,  that,  passing  by 
On  the  sheet-lightning  with  a  moment's  flash, 
Haunts  us  forever  with  its  meteor  eye ; 
And  —  grasp  the  thing  thou  pantest  for  in  vain, 
Ay,  hold  her  fast,  and  for  a  space  intreat  her  — 
But,  if  she  still  be  deaf  to  thy  sad  pain, 
Why,  hearken  to  the  mad  god  in  thy  brain, 
And  make  a  meal  of  trouble  —  that  is,  eat  her  ! 


PENELOPE.  93 

XI. 
PENELOPE. 


T  \  7 HITHER,  Ulysses,  whither  dost  thou  roam, 

*  V    Roll'd  round  with  wind-led  waves  that  render  dark 
The  smoothly-spinning  circle  of  the  sea  ? 
Lo,  Troy  has  fallen,  fallen  like  a  tower, 
And  the  mild  sunshine  of  degenerate  days 
Drops  faintly  on  its  ruins.     One  by  one, 
Swift  as  the  sparkle  of  a  star,  the  ships 
Have  dipt  up  moistly  from  the  under-world, 
And  plumed  warriors,  standing  in  their  prows, 
Stretching  out  arms  to  wives  and  little  ones 
That  crowd  with  seaward  faces  on  the  beach, 
Have  flung  their  armor  off  and  leapt  and  swam 
Ere  yet  the  homeward  keels  could  graze  the  sand. 
And  these  —  the  gaunt  survivors  of  thy  peers  — 
Have  landed,  shone  upon  by  those  they  love, 
And  faded  into  happy  happy  homes  ; 
While  I,  the  lonely  woman,  hugging  close 
The  comfort  of  thine  individual  fame, 
Still  wait  and  yearn  and  wish  towards  the  sea ; 
And  all  the  air  is  hollow  of  my  joy : 
The  seasons  come  and  go,  the  hour-glass  runs, 
The  day  and  night  come  punctual  as  of  old ; 
But  thy  deep  strength  is  in  the  solemn  dawn, 
And  thy  proud  step  is  in  the  plumed  noon, 
And  thy  grave  voice  is  in  the  whispering  eve ; 
And  all  the  while,  amid  this  dream  of  thee, 


94  THE   UNDERTONES. 

In  restless  resolution  oceanward, 

I  sit  and  ply  my  sedentary  task, 

And  fear  that  I  am  lonelier  than  I  know. 

Yea,  love,  I  am  alone  in  all  the  world, 
The  past  grows  dark  upon  me  where  I  wait, 
With  eyes  that  hunger  seaward  and  a  cheek 
Grown  like  the  sampler  coarse-complexione'd. 
For  in  the  shadow  of  thy  coming  home 
I  sit  and  weave  a  weary  housewife's  web, 
Pale  as  the  silkworm  in  the  cone  ;  all  day 
I  sit  and  weave  this  weary  hou^wife's  web, 
And  in  the  night  with  fingers  swift  as  frost 
Unweave  the  weary  labor  of  the  day. 
Behold  how  I  am  mock'd  !  —  Suspicion 
Mumbles  my  name  between  his  toothless  gums ; 
And  while  I  ply  my  sedentary  task, 
They  come  to  me,  mere  men  of  hollow  clay, 
Gross-mouth'd  and  stain'd  with  wine  they  come  to  me, 
And  whisper  odious  comfort,  and  upbraid 
The  love  that  follows  thee  where'er  thou  art, 
That  follows,  and  perchance,  with  thy  moist  cheek, 
Dips  on  the  watery  bottom  of  the  world. 
They  come,  Ulysses,  and  they  seek  to  rob 
Thy  glory  of  its  weaker  wearier  half. 
They  tell  me  thou  art  dead  ;  nay,  they  have  brought 
To  these  cold  ears  that  bend  above  the  web 
Whispers  that  thou,  no  wiser  than  thy  peers, 
Hast  pluckt  upon  the  windy  plain  of  Troy 
A  flower  thou  shrinest  in  a  distant  land, 
A  chamber'd  delicacy  drowsy-eyed, 
Pink-lidded,  wanton,  like  the  queen  who  witch'd 
The  fatal  apple  out  of  Paris'  palm. 

And  I  —  and  I  —  ah  me,  I  rise  my  height, 


PENELOPE.  95 

In  matron  majesty  that  melts  in  tears, 
And  chide  them  from  me  with  a  tongue  that  long 
Hath  lost  the  trick  of  chiding :  what  avails  ? 
They  heed  me  not,  rude  men,  they  heed  me  not ; 
And  he  thou  leftest  here  to  guard  me  well, 
He,  the  old  man,  is  helpless,  and  his  eyes 
Are  yellow  with  the  money-minting  lie 
That  thou  art  dead.     O  husband,  what  avails  ? 
They  gather  on  me,  till  the  sense  grows  cold 
And  huddles  in  upon  the  steadfast  heart ; 
And  they  have  dragg'd  a  promise  from  my  lips 
To  choose  a  murderer  of  my  love  for  thee, 
To  choose  at  will  from  out  the  rest  one  man 
To  slay  me  with  his  kisses  in  the  dark, 
Whene'er  the  weary  web  at  which  I  work 
Be  woven  :  so,  all  day,  I  weave  the  web  ; 
And  in  the  night  with  fingers  like  a  thief's 
Unweave  the  silken  sorrow  of  the  day. 

The  years  wear  on.     Telemachus,  thy  son, 
Grows  sweetly  to  the  height  of  all  thy  hope : 
More  woman-like  than  thee,  less  strong  of  limb, 
Yet  worthy  thee  ;  and  likest  thy  grave  mood, 
When,  in  old  time,  among  these  fields,  thine  eye 
Would  kindle  on  a  battle  far  away, 
And  thy  proud  nostrils,  drinking  the  mild  breath 
Of  tanned  haycocks  and  of  slanted  sheaves, 
Swell  suddenly,  as  if  a  trumpet  spake. 
Hast  thou  forgotten  how  of  old  he  loved 
•To  toy  with  thy  great  beard,  and  sport  with  thee, 
And  how,  in  thy  strong  grasp,  he  leapt  and  seem'd 
A  lambkin  dandled  in  a  lion's  paw  ? 
But  change  hath  come,  Troy  is  an  old  wife's  tale, 
And  sorrow  stealeth  early  on  thy  son, 


96  THE   UNDERTONES. 

Whom  sojourn  with  my  weeping  womanhood 
Hath  taught  too  soon  a  young  man's  gentleness. 
Behold  now,  how  his  burning  boy-face  turns 
With  impotent  words  beyond  all  blows  of  arm 
On  those  rude  men  that  rack  thy  weary  wife  ! 
Then  turns  to  put  his  comfort  on  my  cheek, 
While  sorrow  brightens  round  him  —  as  the  gray 
Of  heaven  melts  to  silver  round  a  star ! 

Return,  Ulysses,  ere  too  late,  too  late : 
Return,  immortal  warrior,  return  : 
Return,  return,  and  end  the  weary  web  ! 
For  day  by  day  I  look  upon  the  sea 
And  watch  each  ship  that  dippeth  like  a  gull 
Across  the  long  straight  line  afar  away 
Where  heaven  and  ocean  meet ;  and  when  the  winds 
Swoop  to  the  waves  and  lift  them  by  the  hair, 
And  the  long  storm-roar  gathers,  on  my  knees 
I  pray  for  thee.     Lo,  even  now,  the  deep 
Is  garrulous  of  thy  vessel  tempest-tost ; 
And  on  the  treeless  upland  gray-eyed  March, 
With  blue  and  humid  mantle  backward  blown, 
Plucks  the  first  primrose  in  a  blustering  wind. 
The  keels  are  wheel'd  unto  the  ocean  sand 
And  eyes  look  outward  for  the  homeward  bound. 
And  not  a  marinere,  or  man  or  boy, 
Scum'd  and  salt-blooded  from  the  boisterous  sea, 
Touches  these  shores,  but  straight  I  summon  him, 
And  bribe  with  meat  and  drink  to  tell  good  news, 
And  question  him  of  thee.     But  what  avails  ? 
Thou  wanderest ;  and  my  love  sits  all  alone, 
Upon  the  threshold  of  an  empty  hall. 

My  very  heart  has  grown  a  timid  mouse, 


PENELOPE.  97 

Peeping  out,  fearful,  when  the  house  is  still. 
Breathless  I  listen  thro'  the  breathless  dark, 
And  hear  the  cock  counting  the  leaden  hours, 
And,  in  the  pauses  of  his  cry,  the  deep 
Swings  on  the  flat  sand  with  a  hollow  clang ; 
And,  pale  and  burning-eyed,  I  fell  asleep 
When,  with  wild  hair,  across  the  weary  wave 
Stares  the  sick  Dawn  that  brings  thee  not  to  me. 

Ulysses,  come  !     Ere  traitors  leave  the  mark 
Of  spread  wine-dripping  fingers  on  the  smooth 
And  decent  shoulders  that  now  stoop  for  thee ! 
I  am  not  young  or  happy  as  of  old, 
When,  awed  by  thy  male  strength,  my  face  grew  dark 
At  thy  grave  footfall,  with  a  serious  joy, 
Or  when,  with  blushing  backward-looking  face, 
I  came  a  bride  to  thine  inclement  realm, 
Trembling  and  treading  fearfully  on  flowers. 
I  am  not  young  and  beauteous  as  of  old  ; 
And  much  I  fear  that  when  we  meet  thy  face 
May  startle  darkly  at  the  work  of  years, 
And  turn  to  hide  a  disappointed  pang, 
And  then,  with  thy  grave  pride,  subdue  itself 
Into  such  pity  as  is  love  stone-dead. 
But  thou,  thou  too,  art  old,  dear  lord  —  thy  hair 
Is  threaded  with  the  silver  foam  —  thy  heart 
Is  weary  from  the  blows  of  cruel  years  ; 
And  there  is  many  a  task  thy  wife  can  do 
To  soothe  thy  sunset  season  and  make  calm 
Thy  journey  down  the  slow  descent  to  Sleep. 

Return,  return,  Ulysses,  ere  I  die ! 
Upon  this  desolate,  desolate  strand  I  wait,  * 

Wearily  stooping  o'er  the  weary  web  — 


98  THE    UNDERTONES. 

An  alabaster  woman,  whose  fix'd  eyes 

Stare  seaward,  whether  it  be  storm  or  calm. 

And  ever,  evermore,  as  in  a  dream, 

I  see  thee  gazing  hither  from  thy  ship 

In  sunset  regions  where  the  still  seas  rot, 

And  stretching  out  great  arms  whose  shadows  fall 

Gigantic  on  the  glassy  purple  sea ; 

And  ever,  evermore,  thou  comest  slow, 

And  evermore  thy  coming  far  away 

Aches  on  the  burning  heartstrings,  —  evermore 

Thou  comest  not,  and  I  am  tired  and  old. 


XII. 

SAPPHO: 
ON   THE   LEUCADIAN   ROCK. 


o 


I. 

SWEET,  sweet,  sweet ! 
While  the  Moon,  with  her  dove's  eyes  fair, 
And  her  beautiful  yellow  hair, 

And  the  Sea-Snake  coiling  round  her  silvery  feet, 
Walk'd  dumbly  up  above  in  the  jewell'd  air, 

Waving  her  luminous  wings, 
To  sit  upon  this  crag  above  the  sea 
Clasp'd  close,  so  close,  to  thee, 

Pale  with  much  yearning,  while  the  murmurings 
Of  the  great  waters  seem'd  to  waft  to  me 

The  name  of  Phaon, 

To  whisper  Phaon,  Phaon, 


SAPPHO:  ON  THE  LEUCADIAN  ROCK.       99 

Phaon,  Phaon,  Phaon,  with  deep  intoning, 
Hushfully,  hushfully  moaning ! 

2. 

O  bliss,  bliss,  bliss  ! 

Though  the  Moon  look'd  pale  in  the  sky, 
On  thy  passionate  heart  to  lie, 

To  cling  to  thy  burning  lips  with  kiss  on  kiss, 
Faintly  watching  the  butterfly  stars  swim  by 

In  the  track  of  that  queenly  Moon ; 
And  in  a  dream,  clasp'd  close,  so  close,  to  thee, 
To  list  and  seem  to  be 

A  portion  of  the  faint  monotonous  tune 
Made  for  its  mistress  by  the  serpent  sea, 

That  whisper'd  Phaon, 

Phaon,  Phaon,  Phaon, 
Phaon,  Phaon,  Phaon,  while  Dian  darkening 

Stoop'd  hushfully,  hushfully  harkening  ! 

3- 

O  pain,  pain,  pain  ! 
While  the  Moon,  in  a  sky  as  clear 
As  of  old,  walks  on,  and  I  hear 

Her  palpitating  foot  on  the  living  main, 
While,  under  her  feet,  the  green  sea-snake  creeps  near 

Hissing  with  scales  that  gleam, 
To  stand  upon  this  crag  beside  the  sea, 
And  dream,  and  dream,  of  thee  — 

With  clench'd  white  hands,  set  teeth,  and  robes 

that  stream 
Behind  me  in  the  wind,  while  audibly 

The  waves  moan  Phaon, 

Shriek  Phaon,  Phaon,  Phaon, 
Phaon,  Phaon,  Phaon,  with  deep  intoning, 

Mournfully,  mournfully  moaning ! 


ioo  THE   UNDERTONES. 

4- 

O  rest,  rest,  rest !  — 
While  the  Moon  with  her  virgin  light 
Thro'  eternities  of  night 

Dumbly  paces  on  to  the  east  from  the  west,  - 
To  mingle  with  the  waves  that  under  the  height, 

Murmur  along  the  shore, 
To  mix  my  virgin  love,  my  agony, 
Into  the  serpent  sea 

That  Dian  seeks  to  silence  evermore, 
To  cling  to  those  white  skirts  and  moan  of  thee, 

O  Phaon,  Phaon, 

Restless  for  love  of  Phaon, 
Phaon,  Phaon,  Phaon,  with  ceaseless  motion, 

Soothed  by  the  soother  of  Ocean ! 


XIII. 
THE    SIREN. 

AH,  kiss  me,  Sweetest,  while  on  yellow  sand 
Murmurs  the  breaking  billow, 
And  smooth  my  silken  ringlets  with  thy  hand, 

And  make  my  breast  thy  pillow  ; 
And  clasp  me,  Dearest,  close  to  lip  and  cheek 

And  bosom  softly  sighing, 
While  o'er  the  green  sea,  in  one  orange  streak, 

The  summer  day  is  dying ! 
Kiss,  kiss,  as  one  that  presses  to  his  mouth 

A  vine-bunch  bursting  mellow, 


THE  SIREN.  101 

In  this  lone  islet  of  the  sleepy  south 

Fringe'd  with  smooth  sands  yellow  : 
A  twilight  of  fresh  leaves  endusks  us  round, 

Flowers  at  our  feet  are  springing, 
And  wave  on  wave  breaks  smoothly  to  the  sound 

Of  my  sweet  singing  ! 

EUMOLPUS. 

Is  it  the  voice  of  mine  own  Soul  I  hear  ? 

Or  some  white  sybil  of  the  sphered  ocean  ? 
And  are  these  living  limbs  that  lie  so  near, 

Clinging  around  me  with  a  serpent-motion  ? 
Is  this  a  tress  of  yellow  yellow  hair, 

Around  my  finger  in  a  ring  enfolden  ? 
Whose  face  is  this,  so  musically  fair, 

That  swoons  upon  my  ken  thro'  vapors  golden  ? 
What  sad  song  withers  on  the  odorous  air  ? 
Where  am  I,  where  ? 

Where  is  my  country  and  that  vision  olden  ? 

THE   SIREN. 

I  sang  thee  hither  in  thy  bark  to  land 

With  deftly  warbled  measure, 
I  wove  a  witch's  spell  with  fluttering  hand 

Till  thou  wert  drunken,  Dearest,  with  much  pleasure. 
At  hush  of  noon  I  had  thee  at  my  knee, 

And  round  thy  finger  pink  I  wound  a  curl, 

And  singing  smiled  beneath  with  teeth  of  pearl, 
Of  what  had  been,  what  was,  and  what  should  be 
Sang  dying  ditties  three  ! 

And  lo  !  thy  blood  was  ravish'd  with  the  theme, 
And  lo  !  thy  face  was  pale  with  drowsy  dream, 
While  stooping  low,  with  rich  lips  tremulous, 
I  kissed  thee  thus !  —  and  thus  ! 


102  THE   UNDERTONES. 

EUMOLPUS. 

Thy  kisses  trance  me  to  a  vision  wan 

Of  what  hath  been  and  nevermore  will  be. 

O  little  fishing-town  Sicilian, 

I  can  behold  thee  sitting  by  the  sea ! 

0  little  red-tiled  town  where  I  was  born  ! 
O  days  ere  yet  I  sail'd  from  mortal  ken ! 

Why  did  I  launch  upon  the  deep  forlorn, 

Nor  fish  in  shallow  pools  with  simple  men  ? 
It  was  a  charm  ;  for  while  I  rockt  at  ease 

Within  our  little  bay, 
There  came  a  melody  across  the  seas 

From  regions  far  away ; 
And  ah !  I  fell  into  a  swooning  sleep, 

And  all  the  world  had  changed  before  I  knew,  — 
And  I  awoke  upon  a  glassy  deep 

With  not  a  speck  of  land  to  break  the  view, 
And  tho'  I  was  alone,  I  did  not  weep, 

For  I  was  singing  too  ! 

1  sang  !  I  sang  !  and  with  mine  oars  kept  time 
Unto  the  rude  sweet  rhyme, 

And  went  a-sailing  on  into  the  west 

Blown  on  by  airs  divine, 
Singing  forever  on  a  wild-eyed  quest 

For  that  immortal  minstrel  feminine  ; 
And  night  and  day  went  past,  until  I  lost 

All  count  of  time,  yet  still  did  melodize  ; 

And  sun  and  stars  beheld  me  from  their  skies  ; 
And  ships  swam  by  me,  from  whose  decks  storm-tost 

Rude  seamen  gazed  with  terror-glazed  eyes. 
And  still  I  found  not  her  for  whom  I  sought, 

Yet  smiled  without  annoy, 
To  ply  the  easy  oar,  and  take  no  thought,     . 

And  sing,  was  such  sweet  joy !  — 


THE  SIREN.  103 

Then  Tempest  came,  and  to  and  from  the  sky 

I  rose  and  fell  in  that  frail  bark  of  mine, 
While  the  snake  Lightning,  with  its  blank  bright  eye, 

Writhed  fierily  in  swift  coils  serpentine 

Along  the  slippery  brine  ; 

And  there  were  days  when  dismal  sobbing  Rain 
Made  melancholy  music  for  the  brain, 
And  hours  when  I  shriek'd  out,  and  wept  in  woe 

Prison'd  about  by  chilly  still  affright, 
While  all  around  dropt  hushdd  flakes  of  Snow 

Melting  and  mingling  down  blue  chasms  of  night. 
Yet  evermore,  I  heard  that  voice  sublime      \ 

Twining  afar  its  weirdly  woven  song, 
And  ever,  ever  more,  mine  oars  kept  time, 
And  evermore  I  utterdd  in  song 

My  yearnings  sad  or  merry,  faint  or  strong. 
Ah  me  !  my  love  for  her  afar  away, 
My  yearning  and  my  burning  night  and  day  ! 
In  dreams  alone,  I  met  her  in  still  lands, 

And  knelt  in  tears  before  her, 
And  could  not  sing,  but  only  wring  mine  hands, 

Adore  her  and  implore  her  ! 
She  glisten'd  past  me  as  a  crane  that  sails 
Above  the  meeting  of  the  ocean-gales, 

With  waft  of  broad  slow  wing  to  regions  new  ; 
And  tho'  I  follow'd  her  from  place  to  place, 
She  held  her  veil  dew-spangled  to  her  face, 

And  I  could  merely  feel  her  eyes  of  blue 

Steadfastly  gazing  thro' ! 

Wherefore  my  heart  had  broken  quite,  —  but  then 
I  would  awake  again,  — 
To  see  the  oily  water  steep'd  in  rest, 

While,  glistering  in  many-color'd  flakes, 
Harming  me  not,  lay  brooding  on  its  breast 

Leviathan  and  all  the  ocean-snakes, 


104  THE   UNDERTONES. 

And  on  the  straight  faint  streak  afar  the  round 

Moist  eye  of  morning  lookt  thro'  dewy  air, 
And  all  was  still,  a  joyous  calm  profound,  — 
And  I  would  break  the  charm  with  happy  sound 

To  find  the  world  so  fair ! 
And  lo  !  I  drank  the  rain-drops  and  was  glad, 

And  smote  the  bird  of  ocean  down  and  ate  ; 
And  ocean  harm'd  me  not,  and  monsters  sad 

That  people  ocean  and  the  desolate 
Abysses  spared  me,  —  charmed  by  the  song 
I  warbled  wildly  as  I  went  along. 
Yea  day  and  night  sped  on,  and  I  grew  old 

Before  I  knew  ;  and  lo  ! 
My  hands  were  wither'd,  on  my  bosom  cold 

There  droopt  a  beard  of  snow,  — 
And  raising  hands  I  shriek'd,  I  cried  a  curse 

On  that  weird  voice  that  twine'd  me  from  home ; 
And  echoes  of  the  awful  universe 

Answer'd  me  ;  and  the  deep  with  lips  of  foam 
Mock'd  me  and  spat  upon  me  ;  and  the  things 

That  people  ocean  rose  and  threaten'd  ill, 
Yea,  also  air-born  harpies  waving  wings, 

Because  I  could  not  sing  to  charm  them  still. 
I  was  alone,  the  shadow  of  a  man, 

Haunting  the  trackless  waste  of  waves  forlorn, 
Blown  on  by  pitiless  rains  and  vapors  wan, 
Plaining  for  that  small  town  Sicilian, 

Where,  in  the  sweet  beginning,  I  was  born ! 

THE   SIREN. 

Ah,  weep  not,  Dearest !  lean  upon  my  breast, 

While  sunset  darkens  stilly, 
And  Dian  poises  o'er  the  slumberous  west 

Her  silver  sickle  chilly  ! 


THE  SIREN.  105 

The  eyes  of  heaven  are  opening,  the  leaves 
Fold  silver-dewy  round  the  closing  roses, 
In  lines  of  foam  the  breaking  billow  heaves, 
Each  thing  that  gladdens  and  each  thing  that  grieves 
Dip  slow  to  dark  reposes. 

EUMOLPUS. 

O  voice  that  lured  me  on,  I  know  thee  now ! 
O  melancholy  eyes,  ye  mildly  beam  ! 

0  kiss,  thy  touch  is  dewy  on  my  brow ! 
Sweet  Spirit  of  my  dream  ! 

THE   SIREN. 

Name  thy  love,  and  I  am  she, 
Name  thy  woe,  and  look  on  me, 
Name  the  weary  melody 
That  led  thee  hither  o'er  the  sea,  — 
Then  call  to  mind  my  ditties  three 
Of  what  hath  been,  what  is,  and  what  shall  be  ! 

EUMOLPUS. 
Ah  woe  !  ah  woe  ! 

1  see  thee  and  I  clasp  thee,  and  I  know  ! 

Sing  to  me,  Sweetest,  while  the  shadows  grow  — 

Sing  low  !  sing  low  ! 
O,  sweet  were  slumber  now,  at  last,  at  last, 

For  I  am  sick  of  wandering  to  and  fro, 
And  ah  !  my  singing-days  are  nearly  pass'd  — 

Sing  low  !  sing  low !  sing  low ! 

THE   SIREN. 

Love  with  wet  cheek,  Joy  with  red  lips  apart, 
Hope  with  her  blue  eyes  dim  with  looking  long, 

Ambition  with  thin  hand  upon  his  heart  — 
Of  which  shall  be  the  song  ? 


106  THE   UNDERTONES. 

Of  one,  of  one, 

Who  loved  till  life  was  done, 

For  life  with  him  was  loving,  tho'  she  slew  his  love 

with  wrong. 
Then,  on  a  winter  day, 
When  all  was  lost  and  his  young  brow  was  gray, 

He  knelt  before  an  Altar  pildd  proud 
With  bleached  bones  and  fruits  and  garlands  gay, 

And  cried  aloud  :  —    . 
"  Have  I  brought  Joy,  and  slain  her  at  thy  feet  ? 

Have  I  brought  Peace,  for  thy  cold  kiss  to  kill, 
Have  I  brought  Youth  crowne'd  with  wild-flowers  sweet, 

With  sandals  dewy  from  a  morning  hill, 

For  thy  gray  solemn  eyes  to  fright  and  chill  ? 
Have  I  brought  Scorn  the  pale  and  Hope  the  fleet, 
And  First-Love  in  her  lily  winding-sheet  ? 

And  art  thou  pitiless  still  ? 
O  Poesy,  thou  nymph  of  fire, 
Grandest  of  that  fair  quire 
Which  in  the  dim  beginning  stoop'd  and  fell,  — 

So  beauteous  yet  so  awful,  standing  tall 
Upon  the  mountain-tops  where  mortals  dwell, 

Seeing  strange  visions  of  the  end  of  all, 
And  pallid  from  the  white-heat  glare  of  Hell ! 
Is  there  no  prophecy,  far-seeing  one, 

To  seal  upon  these  lips  that  yearn  to  sing  ? 
Can  naught  be  gain'd  again  ?  can  naught  be  won  ? 

Is  there  no  utterance  in  this  suffering, 

Is  there  no  voice  for  any  human  thing  ?  " 
Then,  smiling  in  the  impotence  of  pain, 

His  sweet  breath  at  the  Altar  did  he  yield,  — 
While  she  he  loved,  afar  across  the  main, 
Stoop'd  down  to  break  a  weary  people's  chain, 

And  crown  a  Hero  on  a  battle-field ! 


THE  SIREN.  107 

EUMOLPUS. 

Ah  no  !  ah  no  ! 

So  sad  a  theme  is  too  much  woe ! 

Sing  to  me  sweetlier,  since  thou  lovest  me  so  — 

Sing  low  !  sing  low  ! 

THE   SIREN. 

Sisters  we,  the  siren  three, 
Fame  and  Love  and  Poesy  ! 
In  the  solitude  we  sit, 
On  the  mountain-tops  we  flit, 
From  the  islands  of  the  sea 
Luring  man  with  melody  ; 
Sisters  three  we  seem  to  him 
Floating  over  waters  dim,  — 
Sirens,  sirens  three  are  we  — 
Fame  and  Love  and  Poesy ! ' 

EUMOLPUS. 

Ah  woe  !  ah  woe  ! 

That  is  the  song  I  heard  so  long  ago ! 

That  is  the  song 

That  lured  me  long : 

Those  were  the  three  I  saw,  with  arms  of  snow 

And  ringlets  waving  yellow,  beckoning, 
While  on  the  violet  deep  I  floated  slow, 

With  little  heart  to  sing  ; 
And  lo !  they  faded  as  I  leapt  to  land, 

And  their  weird  music  wither'd  on  the  air, 
And  I  was  lying  drowsy  on  the  sand 

Smiling  and  toying  with  thy  yellow  hair ! 

THE   SIREN. 

Sisters  we,  the  sirens  three, 
Fame  and  Love  and  Poesy, 


io8  THE   UNDERTONES. 

Sitting  singing  in  the  sun, 
While  the  weary  marinere 
Passes  on  or  creeps  in  fear, — 

Sisters  three,  yet  only  one, 
When  he  cometh  near ! 

Charmed  sight  and  charmed  sound 

Hover  quietly  around, 

Mine  are  dusky  bowers  and  deep, 

Closed  lids  and  balmy  sleep, 

Kisses  cool  for  fever'd  cheeks  and  warmth  for  eyes  that 
weep! 

EUMOLPUS. 

Sing  low !  sing  low  ! 

Thou  art  more  wondrous  fair  than  mortals  know. 
Bringest  thou,  Beautiful,  or  peace  or  woe  ? 
Close  up  each  eyelid  with  a  warm  rich  kiss, 

And  let  me  listen  while  the  sunlights  go  : 
I  cannot  bear  a  time  so  still  as  this, 

Unbroken  by  thy  voice's  fall  and  flow. 

Sing  to  me,  Beautiful !    Sing  low,  sing  low,  sing  low ! 

THE   SIREN. 

Love  with  wet  cheek,  Joy  with  red  lips  apart, 

Hope  with  her  blue  eyes  dim  with  looking  long, 
Ambition  with  thin  hand  upon  his  heart  — 

Of  which  shall  be  the  song  ? 
Ah,  woe !  ah,  woe ! 

For  Love  is  dead  and  wintry  winds  do  blow. 
Yea,  Love  is  dead  ;  and  by  her  funeral  bier 
Ambition  gnaws  the  lip  and  sheds  no  tear ; 
And  in  the  outer  chamber  Hope  sits  wild, 

Watching  the  faces  in  the  fire  and  weeping ; 
And  at  the  threshold  Joy  the  little  child 

With  rosy  cheeks  runs  leaping, 


THE  SIREN.  109 

And  stops,  —  while  in  the  misty  distance  creeping 
Down  western  hills  the  large  red  sun  sinks  slow  — 
To  see  Death's  footprints  on  the  still  white  snow. 
Ah,  Love  has  gone,  and  all  the  rest  must  go. 
Sing  low !  sing  low !  sing  low ! 

EUMOLPUS. 

It  is  a  song  that  slays  me.     Sing  no  more. 

THE  SIREN. 

Ah,  Sweet,  the  song  is  o'er !  — 

The  ocean-hum  is  hush'd,  't  is  end  of  day, 

The  long  white  foam  fades  faintly, 
The  orange  sunset  dies  into  the  gray 

Where  star  on  star  swims  saintly. 
Hast  thou  not  sung  ?  and  is  not  song  enough  ? 

Hast  thou  not  loved  ?  and  is  not  loving  all  ? 
Art  thou  not  weary  of  the  wayfare  rough, 

Or  is  there  aught  of  life  thou  wouldst  recall  ? 
Ah  no,  ah  no  ! 
The  life  came  sweetly  —  sweetly  let  it  go  ! 

Mine  are  dusky  bowers  and  deep, 

Closed  eyes  and  balmy  sleep, 

Kisses  cool  for  fever'd  cheeks  and  warmth  for  eyes  that 
weep ! 

EUMOLPUS. 
Thou  art  the  gentle  witch  that  men  call  Death  ! 

Ah,  Beauteous,  I  am  weary,  and  would  rest ! 

THE   SIREN. 

Lie  very  softly,  Sweet,  and  let  thy  breath 
Fade  calmly  on  my  breast ! 
Call  me  Love  or  call  me  Fame, 
Call  me  Death  or  Poesy, 


no  THE   UNDERTONES. 

Call  me  by  whatever  name 

Seemeth  sweetest  unto  thee  :  — 
I  anoint  thee,  I  caress  thee, 
With  my  dark  reposes  bless  thee, 
I  redeem  thee,  I  possess  thee  ! 
I  can  never  more  forsake  thee ! 
Slumber,  slumber  peacefully, 
Slumber  calm  and  dream  of  me, 
Till  I  touch  thee,  and  awake  thee  ! 

EUMOLPUS. 

Diviner  far  than  song  divine  can  tell ! 

Thine  eyes  are  dim  with  dreams  of  that  awaking ! 

Yea,  let  me  slumber,  for  my  heart  is  breaking 
With  too  much  love.     Farewell !  farewell !  farewell ! 

THE   SIREN. 

Charmed  sight  and  charmed  sound 
Close  the  weary  one  around  ! 
Charmed  dream  of  charmed  sleep 
Make  his  waiting  sweet  and  deep  ! 
Husht  be  all  things  !     Let  the  spell 
Duskly  on  his  eyelids  dwell ! 

EUMOLPUS. 
Farewell !  farewell !  farewell ! 

THE   SIREN. 

O  melancholy  waters,  softly  flow ! 

O  Stars,  shine  softly,  dropping  dewy  balm  ! 
O  Moon  walk  on  in  sandals  white  as  snow ! 

O  Winds,  be  calm,  be  calm ! 
For  he  is  tired  with  wandering  to  and  fro, 


A    VOICE  FROM  ACADEME.  ill 

Yea,  weary  with  unrest  to  see  and  know. 

O  charmed  sound 

That  hoverest  around ! 
O  voices  of  the  Night !    Sing  low !  sing  low !  sing  low  I 


XIV. 
A  VOICE    FROM    ACADEME, 

OVER  this  azure  poplar  glade 
The  sunshine,  fainting  high  above, 
Ebbs  back  from  woolly  clouds  that  move 
Like  browsing  lambs  and  cast  no  shade  ; 
And  straight  before  me,  faintly  seen 
Thro'  emerald  boughs  that  intervene, 
The  visible  sun  turns  white  and  weaves 
Long  webs  of  silver  thro'  the  leaves. 
The  grassy  sward  beneath  my  foot 
Is  soft  as  lips  of  lambs  and  beeves. 
How  cool  those  lilies  at  the  root 
Of  yonder  tree,  that  dimly  dance 
Thro'  dews  of  their  own  radiance ! 

Yonder  I  see  the  river  run, 

Half  in  the  shade,  half  in  the  sun ; 

And  as  I  near  its  rushy  brink 

The  sparkling  minnows,  where  they  lie 

With  silver  bellies  to  the  sky, 

Flash  from  me  in  a  shower  and  sink. 

I  stand  in  shadows  cool  and  sweet, 


112  THE    UNDERTONES. 

But  in  the  mirror  at  my  feet 
The  heated  azure  heavens  wink. 

All  round  about  this  shaded  spot, 
Whither  the  sunshine  cometh  not, 
Where  all  is  beautiful  repose  — 
I  know  the  kindled  landskip  glows  ; 
And  further,  flutter  golden  showers 
On  proud  Athenai  white  with  towers, 
And  catching  from  the  murmurous  sea, 
[Stain'd  with  deep  shadows  as  of  flowers 
And  dark'ning  down  to  purple  bowers 
Tho'  which  the  sword-fish  darts  in  glee,] 
A  strife  that  cometh  not  to  me. 

For  in  this  place  of  shade  and  sound, 
Hid  from  the  garish  heat  around, 
I  feel  like  one  removed  from  strain 
And  fever  of  the  happy  brain  — 
Where  thoughts  thrill  fiery  into  pain  : 
Like  one  who,  in  the  pleasant  shade 
The  peaceful  pulseless  dead  have  made, 
Walking  in  silence,  just  perceives 
The  gaudy  world  from  which  he  went 
Subdue  itself  to  his  content, 
Like  that  white  globe  beyond  the  leaves ! 


PYGMALION  THE  SCULPTOR.  113 

/ 

XV. 
PYGMALION   THE   SCULPTOR. 

"Materiem  superabat  opus." 

I.  — SHADOW. 

UPON  the  very  morn  I  should  have  wed 
Jove  put  his  silence  in  a  mourning  house  ; 
And,  coming  fresh  from  feast,  I  saw  her  lie 
In  stainless  marriage  samite,  white  and  cold, 
With  orange  blossoms  in  her  hair,  and  gleams 
Of  the  ungiven  kisses  of  the  bride 
Playing  about  the  edges  of  her  lips. 

Then  I,  Pygmalion,  kiss'd  her  as  she  slept, 
And  drew  my  robe  across  my  face  whereon 
The  midnight  revel  linger'd  dark,  and  pray'd ; 
And  the  sore  trouble  hollow'd  out  my  heart 
To  hatred  of  a  harsh  unhallow'd  youth 
As  I  glode  forth.     Next,  day  by  day,  my  soul 
Grew  conscious  of  itself  and  of  its  fief 
Within  the  shadow  of  her  grave  :  therewith, 
Waken'd  a  thirst  for  silence  such  as  dwells 
UndejLthe  ribs, of  dealh.:  whence  slowly  grew 
Old  instincts  that  had  trancdd  me  to  tears 
In  mine  unsinew'd  boyhood,  sympathies 
Full  of  faint  odors  and  of  music  faint 
Like  buds  of  roses  blowing ;  —  till  I  felt 
Her  voice  come  down  from  heaven  on  my  soul, 


II4  THE   UNDERTONES. 

And  stir  it  as  a  wind  that  droppeth  down 
Unseen,  unfelt,  unheard,  until  its  breath 
Troubles  the  shadows  in  a  sleeping  lake. 

And  the  voice  said,  "  Pygmalion,"  and  "  Behold," 
I  answer'd,  "  I  am  here  "  ;  when  thus  the  voice  : 
"  Put  men  behind  thee  —  take  thy  tools,  and  choose 
A  rock  of  marble  white  as  is  a  star, 
Cleanse  it  and  make  it  pure,  and  fashion  it 
After  mine  image  :  heal  thyself:  from  grief 
Comes  glory,  like  a  rainbow  from  a  cloud. 
For  surely  life  and  death,  which  dwell  apart 
In  grosser  human  sense,  conspire  to  make 
The  breathless  beauty  and  eternal  joy 
Of  sculptured  shapes  in  stone.     Wherefore  thy  life 
Shall  purify  itself  and  heal  itself 
In  the  long  toil  of  love  made  meek  by  tears." 

I  barr'd  the  entrance-door  to  this  my  tower 
Against  the  hungry  world,  I  hid  above 
The  mastiff-murmur  of  the  town,  I  pray'd 
In  my  pale  chamber.     Then  I  wrought,  and  chose 
A  rock  of  marble  white  as  is  a  star, 
And  to  her  silent  image  fashion'd  clay, 
And  purified  myself  and  heal'd  myself 
In  the  long  toil  of  love  made  meek  by  tears. 


2.  — THE   MARBLE   LIFE. 

THE  multitudinous  light  oppress'd  me  not, 
But  smiled  subdued,  as  a  young  mother  smiles, 
As  fearful  lest  the  sunbeam  of  the  smile 
Trouble  the  eyelids  of  the  babe  asleep. 


PYGMALION  THE  SCULPTOR.  115 

As  Ocean  murmurs  when  the  storm  is  past 
And  keeps  the  echoed  thunders  many  days, 
My  solitude  was  troublous  for  a  time  : 
Wherefore  I  should  have  harden'd  ;  but  the  clay 
Grew  to  my  touch,  and  brighten'd,  and  assumed 
Fantastic  images  of  natural  things, 
Which,  melting  as  the  fleecy  vapors  melt 
Around  the  shining  cestus  of  the  moon, 
Made  promise  of  the  special  shape  I  loved. 
Withdrawing  back,  I  gazed.     The  unshaped  stone 
Took  outline  in  the  dusk,  as  rocks  unhewn 
Seen  from  afar  thro'  floating  mountain  mists 
Gather  strange  forms  and  human  lineaments. 
And  thus  mine  eye  was  filled  with  what  I  sought 
As  with  a  naked  image,  thus  I  grew 
Self-credulous  of  the  form  the  stone  would  wear, 
And  creeping  close  I  strove  to  fashion  clay 
After  the  vision.     Day  and  night,  I  drew 
New  comfort  from  my  grief ;  my  tears  became 
As  honey'd  rain  that  makes  the  woodbine  sweet, 
Until  my  task  assumed  a  precious  strength 
Wherewith  I  fortified  mine  inner  ear 
Against  the  pleadings  of  the  popular  tongue 
That  babbled  at  my  door ;  and  when  there  dawn'd 
A  hand  as  pure  as  milk  and  cold  as  snow, 
A  small  white  hand,  a  little  lady  hand, 
That  peep'd  out  perfect  from  the  changing  mass, 
And  seem'd  a  portion  of  some  perfect  shape 
Unfreed,  imprison'd  in  the  stone,  —  I  wept 
Warm  tears  of  utter  joy,  and  kiss'd  the  hand, 
As  sweet  girl-mothers  kiss  the  newly  born, 
Weak  as  a  mother.     Then  I  heard  no  more 
The  murmurous  swarm  beneath  me,  women  and  men  ; 
But,  hoarded  in  my  toil,  I  counted  not 


Ii6  THE    UNDERTONES. 

The  coming  and  the  going  of  the  sun : 

Save  when  I  swoon'd  to  sleep  before  the  stone, 

And  dream'd,  and  dreaming  saw  the  perfect  shape 

Emblazon'd,  like  the  rainbow  in  a  stream, 

On  the  transparent  tapestry  of  sleep. 

Ah  me,  the  joy,  the  glory,  and  the  dream, 
When  like  a  living  wonder  senseless  stone 
Smiles  to  the  beating  of  a  heart  that  hangs 
Suspended  in  the  tumult  of  the  blood ! 
To  the  warm  touch  of  my  creating  hand 
The  marble  was  as  snow ;  and  like  the  snow 
Whereon  the  molten  sunshine  gleams  as  blood, 
It  soften'd,  glow'd,  and  changed.    As  one  who  stands 
Beneath  the  cool  and  rustling  dark  to  watch 
The  shadow  of  his  silently  beloved 
Cross  o'er  the  lighted  cottage  blind  and  feel 
The  brightness  of  the  face  he  cannot  see, 
So  stood  I,  trembling,  while  the  shape  unborn 
Darken'd  across  the  white  and  milky  mass 
And  left  the  impress  of  its  loveliness 
To  glorify  and  guide  me.     As  I  wrought 
The  Past  came  back  upon  me,  like  the  ghost 
Of  the  To-Come.     Whate'er  was  pure  and  white, 
Soft-shining  with  a  snow-like  chastity, 
Came  back  from  childhood,  and  from  that  dim  land 
WThich  lies  behind  the  horizon  of  the  sense, 
Felt  though  forgotten  ;  vanishings  divine 
Of  the  strange  vapors  many-shaped  and  fair 
Which  moisten  sunrise  when  the  eye  of  heaven 
Openeth  dimly  from  the  underworld  : 
Faint  instincts  of  the  helpless  babe  that  smiles 
At  the  sweet  pictures  in  its  mother's  eyes 
And  lieth  with  a  halo  round  its  head 


PYGMALION  THE  SCULPTOR.  117 

Of  beauty  uncompleted  :  memories 

Of  young  Love's  vivid  heaven-enthrone'd  light, 

By  whose  moist  rays  the  pensive  soul  of  youth 

Was  troubled  at  the  fountains,  like  a  well 

Wherein  the  mirror'd  motion  of  a  star 

Lies  dewy  and  deep  ;  —  and,  amid  all,  there  dwelt 

A  vaguer  glory,  deeper  sense  of  power, 

Scarce  conscious  of  itself  yet  ruling  all, 

Like  the  hid  heart  which  rocks  the  jaded  blood, 

Brightens  the  cheek,  throbs  music  to  the  brain, 

Yet  dwells  within  the  breast  scarce  recognized, 

Save  when  our  pulses  warn  us  and  in  fear 

We  pause  to  listen.  —  Even  so  at  times 

Those  visions  tranced  me  to  a  dumb  dismay, 

And,  sudden  music  thronging  in  mine  ears, 

I  hearken'd  for  that  central  loveliness 

Whose  magic  guicfed  and  created  all. 

Then  languor  balmier  than  the  blood  i'  the  veins 
When  youth  and  maiden  mingle  and  the  moon 
Breathes  on  the  odorous  room  wherein  they  lie 
Chamber'd  as  in  a  folded  rose's  leaves, 
Oppress'd  me,  and  a  lover's  rapture  fill'd 
My  soul  to  swooning.  '  Lo,  I  kiss'd  the  stone, 
And  toy'd  with  the  cold  hand,  and  look'd  for  light 
In  the  dim  onward-looking  marble  eyes, 
And  smooth'd  the  hair  until  it  seem'd  to  grow 
Soft  as  the  living  ringlets  tingling  warm 
Against  a  heaving  bosom.     At  her  feet 
I  knelt,  and  tingled  to  the  finger-tips 
To  gaze  upon  her  breathless  loveliness  — 
Like  one  who,  shuddering,  gazes  on  a  shrine 
From  human  eyes  kept  holy. 


n8  THE   UNDERTONES. 

Then  at  last, 

Fair-statured,  noble,  like  an  awful  thing 
Frozen  upon  the  very  verge  of  life, 
And  looking  back  along  eternity 
With  rayless  eyes  that  keep  the  shadow  Time, 
She  rose  before  me  in  the  milky  stone, 
White-limb'd,  immortal ;  and  I  gazed  and  gazed 
Like  one  that  sees  a  vision,  and  in  awe 
Half  hides  his  face,  yet  looks,  and  seems  to  dream. 


3.  — THE    SIN. 

BLUE  night.     I  threw  the  lattice  open  wide, 
Drinking  the  odorous  air ;  and  from  my  height 
I  saw  the  watch-fires  of  the  town  and  heard 
The  gradual  dying  of  the  murmurous  day. 
Then,  as  the  twilight  deepen'd,  on  her  limbs 
The  silver  lances  of  the  stars  and  moon 
Were  shatter'd,  and  the  shining  fragments  fell 
Like  jewels  at  her  feet.     The  Cyprian  star 
Quiver'd  to  liquid  emerald  where  it  hung 
On  the  rib'd  ledges  of  the  darkening  hills, 
Gazing  upon  her  ;  and,  as  in  a  dream, 
Methought  the  marble,  underneath  that  look, 
Stirr'd  —  like  a  bank  of  stainless  asphodels 
Kiss'd  into  tumult  by  a  wind  of  light. 

Whereat  there  swam  upon  me  utterly 
A  drowsy  sense  wherein  my  holy  dream 
Was  melted,  as  a  pearl  in  wine  :  bright-eyed, 
Keen,  haggard,  passionate,  with  languid  thrills 
Of  insolent  unrest,  I  watch'd  the  stone, 
And  lo,  I  loved  it :  not  as  men  love  fame, 


PYGMALION  THE  SCULPTOR.  119 

Not  as  the  warrior  loves  his  laurel  wreath, 

But  with  prelusion  of  a  passionate  joy 

That  threw  me  from  the  height  whereon  I  stood 

To  grasp  at  Glory,  and  in  impiousness 

Of  sweet  communing  with  some  living  Soul 

Chamber'd  in  that  cold  bosom.     As  I  gazed 

There  was  a  buzz  of  revel  in  mine  ears, 

And  tinkling  fragments  of  a  song  of  love, 

Warbled  by  wantons  over  wine-cups,  swam 

Like  bees  within  the  brain.  —  Then  I  was  shamed 

By  her  pale  beauty,  and  I  scorn'd  myself, 

And  standing  at  the  lattice  dark  and  cool 

Watch'd  the  dim  winds  of  twilight  enter  in, 

And  draw  a  veil  about  that  loveliness 

White,  dim,  and  breathed  on  by  the  common  air. 

But,  like  a  snake's  moist  eye,  the  dewy  star 
Of  lovers  drew  me  ;  and  I  watch'd  it  grow 
Large,  soft,  and  tremulous  ;  and  as  I  gazed 
In  fascinated  impotence  of  heart, 
I  pray'd  the  lifeless  silence  might  assume 
A  palpable  life,  and  soften  into  flesh, 
And  be  a  beautiful  and  human  joy 
To  crown  my  love  withal ;  and  thrice  the  prayer 
Blacken'd  across  my  pale  face  with  no  word. 
But  thro'  the  woolly  silver  of  a  cloud 
The  cool  star  dripping  emerald  from  the  baths 
Of  Ocean  brighten'd  in  upon  my  tower, 
And  touch'd  the  marble  forehead  with  a  gleam 
Soft,  green,  and  dewy ;  and  I  said,  "  The  prayer 
Is  heard ! " 

The  livelong  night,  the  breathless  night, 
I  waited  in  a  darkness,  in  a  dream, 
Watching  the  snowy  figure  faintly  seen, 


120  THE   UNDERTONES. 

And  ofttimes  shuddering  when  I  seem'd  to  see 
Life,  like  a  taper  burning  in  a  scull, 
Gleam  thro'  the  rayless  eyes  :  yea,  wearily 
I  hearken'd  thro'  the  dark  and  seem'd  to  hear 
The  low  warm  billowing  of  a  living  breast, 
Or  the  slow  motion  of  anointed  limbs 
New-stirring  into  life  ;  and,  shuddering, 
Fearing  the  thing  I  hoped  for,  awful  eyed, 
On  her  cold  breast  I  placed  a  hand  as  cold 
And  sought  a  fluttering  heart.  —  But  all  was  still, 
And  chill,  and  breathless  ;  and  she  gazed  right  on 
With  rayless  orbs,  nor  marvell'd  at  my  touch : 
White,  silent,  pure,  ineffable,  a  shape 
Rebuking  human  hope,  a  deathless  thing, 
Sharing  the  wonder  of  the  Sun  who  sends 
His  long  bright  look  thro'  all  futurity. 

When  Shame  lay  heavy  on  me,  and  I  hid 
My  face,  and  almost  hated  her,  my  work, 
Because  she  was  so  fair,  so  human  fair, 
Yea  not  divinely  fair  as  that  pure  face 
Which,  when  mine  hour  of  loss  and  travail  came, 
Haunted  me,  out  of  heaven.     Then  the  Dawn 
Stared  in  upon  her  :  when  I  open'd  eyes, 
And  saw  the  gradual  Dawn  encrimson  her 
Like  blood  that  blush'd  within  her,  —  and  behold 
She  trembled  —  and  I  shriek'd ! 

With  haggard  eyes, 

I  gazed  on  her,  my  fame,  my  work,  my  love  ! 
Red  sunrise  mingled  with  the  first  bright  flush 
Of  palpable  life  — she  trembled,  stirr'd,  and  sigh'd  — 
And  the  dim  blankness  of  her  stony  eyes 
Melted  to  azure.     Then,  by  slow  degrees, 
She  tingled  with  the  warmth  of  living  blood : 


PYGMALION  THE  SCULPTOR.  121 

Her  eyes  were  vacant  of  a  seeing  soul, 

But  dewily  the  bosom  rose  and  fell, 

The  lips  caught  sunrise,  parting,  and  the  breath 

Fainted  thro'  pearly  teeth. 

I  was  as  one 

Who  gazes  on  a  goddess  serpent-eyed, 
And  cannot  fly,  and  knows  to  look  is  death. 
O  apparition  of  my  work  and  wish  ! 
The  weight  of  awe  oppress'd  me,  and  the  air 
Swung  as  the  Seas  swing  around  drowning  men. 


4.  — DEATH   IN   LIFE. 

ABOUT  her  brow  the  marble  hair  had  clung 
With  wavy  tresses,  in  a  simple  knot 
Bound  up  and  braided  ;  but  behold,  her  eyes 
Droop'd  downward,  as  she  wonder'd  at  herself, 
Then  flush'd  to  see  her  naked  loveliness, 
And  trembled,  stooping  downward  ;  and  the  hair 
Unloosening  fell,  and  brighten'd  as  it  fell, 
Till  gleaming  ringlets  tingled  to  the  knees 
And  cluster'd  round  about  her  where  she  stood 
As  yellow  leaves  around  a  lily's  bud, 
Making  a  fountain  round  her  such  as  clips 
A  Naiad  in  the  sunshine,  pouring  down 
And  throwing  moving  shadows  o'er  the  floor 
Whereon  she  stood  and  brighten'd. 

Wondering  eyed, 

With  softly  heaving  breast  and  outstretch'd  arms, 
Slow  as  an  eyeless  man  who  gropes  his  way, 
She  thrust  a  curving  foot  and  touch'd  the  ground, 
And  stirr'd  ;  and,  downcast-lidded,  saw  not  me. 
Then  as  the  foot  descended  with  no  sound, 


122  THE   UNDERTONES. 

The  whole  live  blood  grew  pink  within  the  veins 
For  joy  of  its  own  motion.     Step  by  step, 
She  paced  the  chamber,  groping  till  she  gain'd 
One  sunlight-slip  that  thro'  the  curtain'd  pane 
Crept  slant  —  a  gleaming  line  on  roof  and  floor ; 
And  there,  in  light,  she  pausing  sunn'd  herself 
With  half-closed  eyes  ;  while  flying  gleams  of  gold 
Sparkled  like  flies  of  fire  among  her  hair, 
And  the  live  blood  show'd  brightlier,  as  wine 
Gleams  thro'  a  curd-white  cup  of  porcelain. 

There,  stirring  not,  she  paused  and  sunn'd  herself, 
With  drooping  eyelids  that  grew  moist  and  warm, 
What  time,  withdrawn  into  the  further  dark, 
I  watch'd  her,  nerveless,  as  a  murderer  stretch'd 
Under  a  nightmare  of  the  murder'd  man. 
And  still  she,  downcast-lidded,  saw  me  not ; 
But  gather'd  glory  while  she  sunn'd  herself, 
Drawing  deep  breath  of  gladness  such  as  earth 
Breathes  dewily  in  the  sunrise  after  rain. 

Then  pray'd  I,  lifting  up  my  voice  aloud  : 
"  O  apparition  of  my  work  and  wish  ! 
Thou  most  divinely  fair  as  she  whose  face 
Haunted  me,  out  of  heaven  !     Raise  thine  eyes  ! 
Live,  love,  as  thou  and  I  have  lived  and  loved ! 
Behold  me  —  it  is  I  —  Pygmalion. 
Speak,  Psyche,  with  thy  human  eyes  and  lips, 
Speak,  to  Pygmalion,  with  thy  human  soul !  " 

And  still  she,  downcast-lidded,  saw  me  not, 
But  gather'd  glory  as  she  sunn'd  herself. 
Yet  listen'd  murmuring  inarticulate  speech, 
Listen'd  with  ear  inclined  and  fluttering  lids, 
As  one  who  lying  on  a  bed  of  flowers 


PYGMALION  THE  SCULPTOR.  123 

Hearkeneth  to  the  distant  fall  of  waves, 

That  cometh  muffled  in  the  drowsy  hum 

Of  bees  pavilion'd  among  roses'-leaves 

Near  to  the  ears  that  listen.     So  she  stood 

And  listen'd  to  my  voice,  framing  her  lips 

After  the  speech  ;  nay,  when  the  sound  had  ceased, 

She  listen'd,  with  a  shadow  on  her  cheek  — 

Like  the  Soul's  Music,  when  the  Soul  has  fled, 

Fading  upon  a  dead  Musician's  face. 

But,  stooping  in  mine  awe,  with  outstretch'd  arms, 
I  crept  to  her  ;  nor  stirr'd  she,  till  my  breath 
Was  warm  upon  her  neck :  then  raised  she  eyes 
Of  dewy  azure,  ring  in  ring  of  blue 
Less'ning  in  passionate  orbs  whereon  my  face 
Fell  white  with  yearning  wonder  ;  when  a  cry 
Tore  her  soft  lips  apart,  the  gleaming  orbs 
Widen'd  to  silvery  terror,  and  she  fled, 
With  yellow  locks  that  shone  and  arms  that  waved, 
And  in  the  further  darkness  cower'd  and  moan'd, 
Dumb  as  a  ringdove  that  with  fluttering  wings 
Watches  an  adder  in  the  act  to  leap. 

What  follow'd  was  a  strange  and  wondrous  dream 
Wherein,  half  conscious,  wearily  and  long 
I  wooed  away  her  fears  with  gentle  words, 
Smooth  gestures,  and  sweet  smiles,  —  with  kindness 

such 

As  calms  the  terror  of  a  new-yean'd  lamb, 
So  pure,  it  fears  its  shadow  on  the  grass  ; 
And  all  the  while  thick  pulses  of  my  heart 
Throng'd  hot  in  ears  and  eyelids,  —  for  my  Soul 
Seem'd  swooning,  deaden'd  in  the  sense,  like  one 
Who  sinks  in  snows,  and  sleeps,  and  wakes  no  more. 


124  THE   UNDERTONES. 

Yet  was  I  conscious  of  a  hollow  void, 
A  yearning  in  the  tumult  of  the  blood, 
Her  presence  fill'd  not,  quell'd  not ;  and  I  search'd 
Her  eyes  for  meanings  that  they  harbor'd  not, 
Her  face  for  beauty  that  disturb'd  it  not. 
}T  was  Psyche's  face,  and  yet  'twas  not  her  face, 
A  face  most  fair,  yet  not  so  heavenly  fair, 
As  hers  who,  when  my  time  of  travail  came, 
Haunted  me,  out  of  heaven.     For  its  smile 
Brought  no  good  news  from  realms  beyond  the  sun, 
The  lips  framed  heavenly  nor  human  speech, 
And  to  the  glorious  windows  of  the  eyes 
No  Soul  clomb  up  —  to  look  upon  the  stars, 
And  search  the  void  for  glimpses  of  the  peaks 
Of  that  far  land  of  morning  whence  it  comes. 

Then,  further,  I  was  conscious  that  my  face 
Had  lull'd  her  fears  ;  that  close  to  me  she  came 
Tamer  than  beast,  and  toy'd  with  my  great  beard, 
And  murmur'd  sounds  like  prattled  infants'  speech, 
And  yielding  to  my  kisses  kissed  again. 
Whereat,  in  scorn  of  my  pale  Soul,  I  cried, 
"  Here  will  I  feast  in  honor  of  this  night !  " 
And  spread  the  board  with  meats  and  bread  and  wine, 
And  drew  the  curtain  with  a  wave  of  arm 
Bidding  the  sunlight  welcome  :  lastly,  snatch'd 
A  purple  robe  of  richness  from  the  wall, 
And  flung  it  o'er  her  while  she  kiss'd  and  smiled, 
Girdling  the  waist  with  clasp  and  cord  of  gold. 

Then  sat  we,  side  by  side.     She,  queenly  stoled, 
Amid  the  gleaming  fountain  of  her  hair, 
With  liquid  azure  orbs  and  rosy  lips 
Gorgeous  with  honey'd  kisses ;  I,  like  a  man 


PYGMALION  THE  SCULPTOR.  125 

Who  loves  fair  eyes  and  knows  they  are  a  fiend's, 

And  in  them  sees  a  heav'n  he  knows  is  hell. 

For,  like  a  glorious  feast,  she  ate  and  drank, 

Staining  her  lips  in  crimson  wine,  and  laugh'd 

To  feel  the  vinous  bubbles  froth  and  burst 

In  veins  whose  sparkling  blood  was  meet  to  be 

An  angel's  habitation.     Cup  on  cup 

I  drain'd  in  fulness  —  careless  as  a  god  — 

A  haggard  bearded  head  upon  a  breast 

In  tumult  like  a  sun-kist  bed  of  flowers. 

But  ere,  suffused  with  light,  the  eyes  of  Heaven 
WidenM  to  gaze  upon  the  white-arm'd  Moon, 
Stiller  than  stone  we  reign'd  there,  side  by  side. 
Yea,  like  a  lonely  King  whose  Glory  sits 
Beside  him,  —  impotent  of  life  but  fair,  — 
Brightly  appareldd  I  sat  above 
The  tumult  of  the  town,  as  on  a  throne, 
Watching  her  wearily  ;  while  far  away 
The  sunset  dark'd  like  dying  eyes  that  shut 
Under  the  waving  of  an  angel's  wing. 


-5.  — SHADOW. 

THREE  days  and  nights  the  vision  dwelt  with  me, 

Three  days  and  nights  we  dozed  in  dreadful  state, 

Look'd  piteously  upon  by  sun  and  star  ; 

But  the  third  night  there  pass'd  a  homeless  sound 

Across  the  city  underneath  my  tower, 

And  lo  !  there  came  a  roll  of  muffled  wheels, 

A  shrieking  and  a  hurrying  to  and  fro 

Beneath,  and  I  gazed  forth.     Then  far  below 

I  heard  the  people  shriek,  "  A  pestilence  !  " 


126  THE   UNDERTONES. 

But,  while  they  shriek'd,  they  carried  forth  their  Dead, 
And  flung  them  out  upon  the  common  ways, 
And  moaning  fled :  while  far  across  the  hills 
A  dark  and  brazen  sunset  ribb'd  with  black 
Glared,  like  the  sullen  eyeballs  of  the  plague. 

I  turn'd  to  her,  the  partner  of  my  height : 
She,  with  bright  eyeballs  sick  with  wine,  and  hair 
Gleaming  in  sunset,  on  a  couch  asleep. 
And  lo  !  a  horror  lifted  up  my  scalp, 
The  pulses  plunged  upon  the  heart,  and  fear 
Froze  my  wide  eyelids.     Peacefully  she  lay 
In  purple  stole  array'd,  one  little  hand 
Bruising  the  downy  cheek,  the  other  still 
Clutching  the  dripping  goblet,  and  the  light, 
With  gleams  of  crimson  on  the  ruinous  hair, 
Spangling  a  blue-vein'd  bosom  whence  the  robe 
Fell  back  in  rifled  folds  ;  but  dreadful  change 
Grew  pale  and  hideous  on  the  waxen  face, 
And  in  her  sleep  she  did  not  stir,  nor  dream. 
Therefore,  it  seem'd,  Death  pluck'd  me  by  the  sleeve, 
And,  sweeping  past,  with  lean  forefinger  touch'd 
The  sleeper's  brow  and  smiled  ;  when,  shrinking  back, 
I  turn'd  my  face  away,  and  saw  afar 
The  brazen  sullen  sunset  ribb'd  with  black 
Glare  on  her,  like  the  eyeballs  of  the  plague. 

O  apparition  of  my  work  and  wish  ! 
Shrieking  I  fled,  my  robe  across  my  face, 
And  left  my  glory  and  my  woe  behind, 
And  sped,  thro'  pathless  woods,  o'er  moonlit  peaks, 
Toward  sunrise  ;  —  nor  have  halted  since  that  hour,  — 
But  wander  far  away,  a  homeless  man, 
Prophetic,  orphan'd  both  of  name  and  fame. 


ANTONY  IN  ARMS.  127 

Nay,  like  a  timid  Phantom  evermore 

I  come  and  go  with  haggard  warning  eyes  ; 

And  some,  that  sit  with  lemans  over  wine, 

Or  dally  idly  with  the  glorious  hour, 

Turn  cynic  eyes  away  and  smile  aside ; 

And  some  are  saved  because  they  see  me  pass, 

And,  shuddering,  yet  constant  to  their  task, 

Look  up  for  comfort  to  the  silent  stars. 


XVI. 

ANTONY    IN    ARMS. 

LO,  we  are  side  by  side  !  —  One  dark  arm  furls 
Around  me  like  a  serpent  warm  and  bare ; 
The  other,  lifted  'mid  a  gleam  of  pearls, 
Holds  a  full  golden  goblet  in  the  air : 
Her  face  is  shining  through  her  cloudy  curls 

With  light  that  makes  me  drunken  unaware, 
And  with  my  chin  upon  my  breast  I  smile 
Upon  her,  darkening  inward  all  the  while. 

And  thro'  the  chamber  curtains,  backward  roll'd 
By  spicy  winds  that  fan  my  fever'd  head, 

I  see  a  sandy  flat  slope  yellow  as  gold 

To  the  brown  banks  of  Nilus  wrinkling  red 

In  the  slow  sunset ;  and  mine  eyes  behold 
The  West,  low  down  beyond  the  river's  bed, 


128  THE   UNDERTONES. 

Grow  sullen,  ribb'd  with  many  a  brazen  bar, 
Under  the  white  smile  of  the  Cyprian  star. 

A  bitter  Roman  vision  floateth  black 
Before  me,  in  my  dizzy  brain's  despite ; 

The  Roman  armor  brindles  on  my  back, 

My  swelling  nostrils  drink  the  fumes  of  fight : 

But  then,  she  smiles  upon  me  !  —  and  I  lack 
The  warrior  will  that  frowns  on  lewd  delight, 

And,  passionately  proud  and  desolate, 

I  smile  to  answer  to  the  joy  I  hate. 

Joy  coming  uninvoked,  asleep,  awake, 

Makes  sunshine  on  the  grave  of  buried  powers  ; 

Ofttimes  I  wholly  loathe  her  for  the  sake 
Of  manhood  slipt  away  in  easeful  hours : 

But  from  her  lips  mild  words  and  kisses  break, 
Till  I  am  like  a  ruin  mock'd  with  flowers  ; 

I  think  of  Honor's  face  —  then  turn  to  hers  — 

Dark,  like  the  splendid  shame  that  she  confers. 

Lo,  how  her  dark  arm  holds  me  !  —  I  am  bound 
By  the  soft  touch  of  fingers  light  as  leaves  : 

I  drag  my  face  aside,  but  at  the  sound 
Of  her  low  voice  I  turn  —  and  she  perceives 

The  cloud  of  Rome  upon  my  face,  and  round 

My  neck  she  twines  her  odorous  arms  and  grieves, 

Shedding  upon  a  heart  as  soft  as  they 

Tears  't  is  a  hero's  task  to  kiss  away  ! 

And  then  she  loosens  from  me,  trembling  still 

Like  a  bright  throbbing  robe,  and  bids  me  "go  !  "  - 

When  pearly  tears  her  drooping  eyelids  fill, 
And  her  swart  beauty  whitens  into  snow ; 


FINE    WEATHER  ON  THE  DIGENTIA.     129 

And  lost  to  use  of  life  and  hope  and  will, 

I  gaze  upon  her  with  a  warrior's  woe, 
And  turn,  and  watch  her  sidelong  in  annoy  — 
Then  snatch  her  to  me,  flush'd  with  shame  and  joy  ! 

Once  more,  O  Rome  !  I  would  be  son  of  thine  — 
This  constant  prayer  my  chain'd  soul  ever  saith  — 

I  thirst  for  honorable  end  —  I  pine 

Not  thus  to  kiss  away  my  mortal  breath. 

But  comfort  such  as  this  may  not  be  mine  — 
I  cannot  even  die  a  Roman  death : 

I  seek  a  Roman's  grave,  a  Roman's  rest  — 

But,  dying,  I  would  die  upon  her  breast ! 


XVII. 
FINE  WEATHER  ON   THE   DIGENTIA. 

HORATIUS  COGITANDIBUS. 

I. 

FAVONIUS  changes  with  sunny  kisses 

The  spring's  ice-fetters  to  bands  of  flowers, 

And  the  delicate  Graces,  those  thin-skin'd  Misses, 
Are  beginning  to  dance  with  the  rosy  Hours  ; 

The  Dryades,  feeling  the  breeze  on  their  bosoms, 

Thro'  tuby  branches  are  blowing  out  blossoms  ; 

The  naked  Naiad  of  every  pool, 

Lest  the  sunshine  should  drive  her  to  playing  the  fool, 


1 30  THE    UNDERTONES. 

Lies  full  length  in  the  water  and  keeps  herself  cool ; 

Pan  is  piping  afar,  'mid  the  trees, 

His  ditty  dies  on  the  dying  breeze, 

While  a  wood-nymph  leaneth  her  head  on  his  knees, 

In  a  dream,  in  a  dream,  with  her  wild  eyes  glistening, 

Her  bosom  throbbing,  her  whole  soul  listening  ! 

In  fact,  't  is  the  season  of  billing  and  cooing, 

Amorous  flying  and  fond  pursuing, 

Kissing,  and  pressing,  and  mischief-doing ; 

And  pleasant  it  is  to  take  one's  tipple 

In  the  mild  warm  breath  of  the  spicy  South, 
And  deftly  to  fasten  one's  lips  to  the  mouth 
Of  a  flasket  warmer  than  Venus'  nipple  ! 
Pleasant,  pleasant,  at  this  the  season 
When  folly  is  reason  and  reason  treason, 
When  naught  is  so  powerful  near  or  far 

As  the  palpitating 

Titillating 
Twinkle,  twinkle,  twinkle  of  the  Cyprian  star ! 

2. 

But  what  has  a  shaky  quaky  fellow, 
Full  of  the  sunshine  but  over-mellow, 
To  do  with  the  beautiful  Lesbian  Queen, 
The  pink-eyed  precious  with  locks  of  yellow, 
The  goddess  of  twenty  and  sweet  eighteen, 
Whose  double  conquest  o'er  Pride  and  Spleen 
In  the  Greek  King's  bed  put  a  viper  green 
And  darken'd  the  seas  with  the  Grecian  force  ? 

Nothing,  of  course  ! 
Well,  even  I  have  of  joy  my  measure 
And  can  welcome  the  new-born  Adonis  with  pleasure ; 
For  since  at  Philippi,  worst  of  scrapes, 

I  saved  my  skin  for  the  good  of  the  nation, 


FINE    WEATHER   ON  THE  DIGENTIA.     131 

And  made  my  pious  asseveration 
To  scorn  ambition  and  cultivate  grapes, 
I  Ve  found  by  a  curious  convolution 

Of  physical  ailments  and  heavenly  stars, 
And  of  wisdom  wean'd  on  the  blood-milk  of  Mars, 
That  my  pluck  is  surpass'd  by  my  elocution  — 
And  learnt,  in  fine, 
That  rosy  wine 
And  sunshine  agree  with  my  constitution  !  (Bibit.) 

3- 

Pleasant  it  is,  I  say,  to  sit  here, 
Just  in  the  sunshine  without  the  threshold, 
And,  with  fond  fingers  and  lips,  caress  old 

Bacchus'  bottle,  the  sources  of  wit,  here  ! 

Drowsily  hum  the  honey-bees, 

Drowsily  murmur  the  birds  in  the  trees, 

Drowsily  drops  the  spicy  breeze, 

Drowsily  I  sit  at  mine  ease. 

4- 

An  idle  life  is  the  life  for  me,  — 
Idleness  spiced  by  philosophy  ! 
I  care  not  a  fig  for  the  cares  of  business, 
Politics  fill  me  with  doubt  and  dizziness, 
Pomps  and  triumphs  are  simply  a  bore  to  me, 
Crude  ambition  will  come  no  more  to  me, 
I  hate  the  vulgar  popular  cattle, 
And  I  modestly  blush  at  the  mention  of  battle. 
No  !  —  Here  is  my  humble  definition 
Of  a  perfectly  happy  and  virtuous  condition  : 
A  few  fat  acres  aroundabout, 

To  give  one  a  sense  of  possession  ;  a  few 
Servants  to  pour  the  sweet  Massic  out ; 


132  THE   UNDERTONES. 

Plenty  to  eat  and  nothing  to  do  ; 
A  feeling  of  cosy  and  proud  virility  ; 

A  few  stray  pence  ;  — 

And  the  tiniest  sense 
Of  self-conserving  responsibility ! 

5- 
For,  what  is  life  ?  —  or,  rather  ask  here, 

What  is  that  fountain  of  music  and  motion 
We  call  the  Soul  ?  —  As  I  sit  and  bask  here, 

I  confess  that  I  have  n't  the  slightest  notion. 
Yet  Plato  calls  it  eternal,  telling 
How  its  original  lofty  dwelling 
Was  among  the  stars,  till,  fairly  repining 
At  eternally  turning  a  pivot  and  shining, 
Heaven  it  quitted 
To  dwell  unpitied 

In  a  fleshly  mansion  of  wining  and  whining ; 
Aristotle,  I  don't  know  why, 
Believes  that,  born  up  above  in  the  sky 
The  moment  that  Body  is  born  on  the  earth, 
'T  is  married  to  Body  that  moment  of  birth  ; 
Hippo  and  others,  whose  heads  were  a  muddle, 
Affirm  'tis  compounded  of  water  —  puddle  ! 
Fire,  not  a  few,  with  Democritus,  swear  ; 
While  others  —  chameleons  —  reduce  it  to  Air ; 
Water  and  fire,  cries  Hippocrates  ! 
No,  water  and  earth,  cries  Xenophanes  ! 
Earth  and  fire,  cries  Parmenides  ! 
Stop  !  cries  Empedocles,  —  all  of  these  ! 
Ennius  follow'd  Pythagoras,  thinking 
The  transmigration  of  spirits  a  truth  ;  — 
A  doctrine  I  choose  to  apply  in  sooth 
To  the  spirit  that  lies  in  the  wine  I  'm  drinking ; 


FINE    WEATHER   ON  THE  DIGENTIA.     133 

Speculation,  muddle,  trouble, 
Some  see  obliquely,  others  double, 

While  under  their  noses, 

Which  smell  not  the  roses, 
Truth  placidly  bursts  like  a  spangled  bubble. 

6. 

Altogether,  they  puzzle  me  quite, 

They  all  seem  wrong  and  they  all  seem  right. 

The  puzzle  remains  an  unsatisfied  question  ; 

But  Epicurus  has  flatly  tried 

To  prove  that  the  Soul  is  closely  allied 
To  wine,  and  sunshine,  and  good  digestion. 
For  without  any  prosing,  head-racking,  or  preaching, 
That 's  the  construction  I  put  on  his  teaching ! 
'T  is  simple  :  the  Soul  and  the  Body  are  one, 
Like  the  Sun  itself  and  the  light  of  the  Sun, 
Born  to  change  with  all  other  creations, 
Homunculi,  qualities,  emanations, 
To  pass  thro'  wondrous  and  strange  gradations ; 
And  if  this  be  the  case,  our  best  resource 
Is  to  make  the  most  of  our  time,  of  course, 
Nor  grumble  and  question  till  hoary  and  hoarse. 
And  I  slightly  improve  upon  Epicurus, 
Who  shirk'd  good  living,  as  some  assure  us, 
And  assert,  from  experience  long  and  rare, 
That  body  and  soul  can  be  perfectly  snug, 
With  sunshine,  fresh  air, 
And  no  physical  care, 
In  a  garden  that  never  requires  to  be  dug. 

7- 

I,  Quintus  Horatius  Flaccus,  am  learning 
From  the  tuneful  stars  in  my  zenith  turning, 


134  THE   UNDERTONES. 

From  my  bachelorhood,  which  is  wide  awake, 
That  the  sum  of  good  is  a  life  of  ease, 
A  friend  or  two,  if  the  humor  please, 

And  not  a  tie  it.  would  pain  you  to  break. 

Call  me  selfish,  indolent,  vain, 

But  I  don't  and  won't  see  the  virtue  of  pain, 

Be  it  of  body  or  be  it  of  brain  ; 

Philippi  finished  my  education, 

For  it  taught  me  the  doctrine  of  self-preservation. 

I  hate  the  barking  of  Scylla's  dogs, 

Round  Charybdis  your  sailor  may  spin,  but  not  I  :  — 
In  short,  I  am  one  of  those  excellent  hogs 

That  grunt  in  the  Grecian  epicure's  sty. 

Day  by  day,  my  delight  has  grown  wider 
Since  I  learnt  that  wine  is  a  natural  good, 
And  the  stubborn  donkey  called  Fortitude 

Has  a  knack  of  upsetting  the  bile  of  its  rider. 

All  creeds  that  vex  one  are  mere  vexation  ; 

But  I  firmly  believe,  and  no  man  dare  doubt  me, 

In  Massia  taken  in  moderation, 

And  I  like  to  dwell  where  no  fools  can  flout  me  — 
Sans  physical  care, 
In  the  sunny  air. 

And  to  sing  —  when  I  feel  the  fresh  world  about  me  ! 

(Bibit.) 


Bear  witness,  Flower  !  —  One's  sense  perceives 

The  rich  sap  lying  within  your  leaves, 

Which  lusciously  swoon  to  a  soft  blood-red 

As  the  sunlight  woos  them  from  overhead  ! 

Now,  here  is  a  parallel  worth  inspection 

Of  body  and  blood  in  perfect  connection 

With  what  some  call  Soul,  that  obscure  abstractor 


FINE    WEATHER   ON  THE  DIGENTIA.     135 

Which  I  have  proved  to  my  satisfaction 
To  be  body  in  lesser  or  greater  perfection. 
The  perfect  parts  of  the  perfect  flower 
Were  nourish'd  by  sunshine  for  many  an  hour, 
Till  the  sunshine  within  them  o'erflowing,  —  hence 
The  juice  whose  odorous  quintessence, 
Though  sweetly  expressing  the  parts  and  the  whole, 
Is  simply  a  part  of  the  whole,  and  still 
Inseparate  from  the  general  will. 
The  Flower  is  the  Body,  the  Scent  is  the  Soul ! 
See  !  I  press  a  thorn  in  the  milky  stalk  : 
The  small  thing  droops  o'er  the  garden  walk, 
The  soft  leaves  shiver,  the  sap  runs  dry, 
And  never  more  will  the  flower's  mild  eye 
Drink  the  breath  of  the  moon  —  it  will  linger,  and  die. 
But  the  scent  of  the  flower,  some  would  cry,  is  the 
sweeter  ; 

True,  but  the  scent,  every  moment,  grows  less, 

And,  further  observing,  they  would  confess, 
That  the  flower,  as  a  flower,  is  the  incompleter ! 

Well,  between  my  fingers  I  sharply  press 
The  delicate  leaves,  and  thro'  every  vein 
The  perfect  anatomy  shrinks  with  pain, 

And  the  flower  with  its  odorous  quintessence 
Will  never,  't  is  clear,  be  perfection  again. 

Bah  !  I  pluck  it,  I  pluck  it,  and  cast  it  hence, 
As  Death  plucks  humanity  body  and  brain. 
But  the  odor  has  not  yet  flown,  you  cry, 
It  sweetens  the  air,  tho'  the  flower  doth  die  ! 
Of  course  ;  and  the  feelers  and  stem  and  leaves, 
And  the  sap  and  the  odor  it  interweaves, 

No  longer  perfect  and  gastronomic, 
Are  in  common  resolving  themselves,  one  perceives, 

Back  to  first  principles,  —  say  atomic; 


136  THE   UNDERTONES. 

And  whatever  destination  your  fine 
Hard-headed  philosophers  choose  to  assign 
To  the  several  parts,  they  are  reft  of  their  power, 
And,  so  far  as  concerns  its  true  functions  —  to  scent 
The  soft  air,  and  look  fair  —  and  its  first  sweet  intent, 
'T  is  clear  that  the  whole  is  no  longer  a  Flower. 

9- 
Take  that  bulky  and  truly  delectable  whole, 

The  egotistic  disciple  of  Bacchus, 
With  small  hare's-eyes  and  gray  hairs  on  his  poll, 

Myself — good  Quintus  Horatius  Flaccus  ! 
There  's  a  Body !     There  's  a  Soul ! 
Many  a  year,  over  Rome's  dominions, 
Has  he  vaunted  his  Epicurean  opinions ; 
He  may  be  wrong,  he  may  be  right, 
So  he  roars  his  creed  in  no  mad  heroics,  — 
Since  down  in  the  grave,  where  all  creeds  unite, 
Even  Epicureans  are  changed  to  Stoics.  (Bibit.) 

10. 

Humph,  the  grave !  —  not  the  pleasantest  prospect, 
affirms, 

This  quiet  old  heart  starting  up  with  a  beat  — 
Well,  't  is  rather  hard  that  a  liquor  so  sweet 
Goes  simply  to  flavor  a  meal  for  worms  ! 
After  all,  I  'm  a  sensible  man, 
To  render  my  span 
As  happy  and  easeful  as  ever  I  can. 
To-morrow  may  mingle,  who  knows,  who  knows, 

The  Life  that  is  Dream  with  the  Death  that  is  Sleep, 
And  the  grass  that  covers  my  last  repose 

May  make  a  sward  where  the  lambkins  leap 
Round  a  mild-eyed  mellifluous  musical  boy 


FINE    WEATHER   ON  THE  DIGENTIA.     137 

Who  pipes  to  his  flock  in  a  pastoral  joy, 

While  the  sun  that  is  shining  upon  him  there 

Draws  silver  threads  thro'  his  curly  hair, 

And  Time  with  long  shadows  stalks  past  the  spot, 

And  the  Hours  pass  by,  and  he  sees  them  not ! 

Instead  of  moping  and  idly  rueing  it, 

Now,  this  is  the  pleasantest  way  of  viewing  it !  — 

To  think,  when  all  is  over  and  done, 

Of  insensately  feeling  one's  way  to  the  sun, 

Of  being  a  part  of  the  verdure  that  chases 

The  mild  west-wind  into  shady  places, 

While  one's  liver,  warming  the  roots  of  a  tree, 

Creeps  upward  and  flutters  delectably 

In  the  leaves  that  tremble  and  sigh  and  sing, 

And  the  breath  bubbles  up  in  a  daisy  ring, 

And  the  heart,  mingling  strangely  with  rains  and  snows, 

Bleeds  up  thro'  the  turf  in  the  blood  of  a  rose. 

ii. 

Which  reminds  me,  here,  that  the  simile  drawn 

From  the  flower  that  is  withering  on  the  lawn, 

May,  by  a  stretch  of  the  thought,  apply 

To  the  universe  —  ocean,  earth,  air,  and  sky ; 

And  dividing  the  whole  into  infinite  less, 

First  principles,  atomies  numberless, 

We  find  that  the  sum  of  the  universe  strange 

Suffers  continual  mystical  change  ; 

While  the  parts  of  the  whole,  tho'  their  compounds 

range 

Thro'  all  combinations  from  men  down  to  daisies, 
Are  eternal,  unchangeable,  suffer  no  phases. 
So  that  Death,  to  the  dullest  of  heads  so  unsightly, 
Is  (here  I  improve  Epicurus  slightly) 
Is  but  the  period  of  dissolution 


138  THE   UNDERTONES. 

Into  some  untraceable  constitution 

Of  the  several  parts  of  the  Body  and  Soul,  — 

And  a  total  extinction  of  Man  as  a  whole. 

As  to  Time  —  mere  abstraction  !     With  even  motion, 

Like  waves  that  gathering  foamy  speech 

Grow  duskily  up  on  a  moonlit  beach, 

And  seem  to  increase  the  huge  bulk  of  the  ocean, 

Hours  roll  upon  hours  in  the  measureless  sea 

Of  eternity : 

Never  ceasing,  they  seem  increasing; 
But  the  parts  of  the  Infinite,  changing  never, 
Increase  not,  tho'  changing,  the  Whole,  the  Forever. 
Time  ?     Call  it  a  compound,  if  you  please, 
A  divisible  drop  in  eternal  seas, 
An  abstract  figure,  by  which  we  men 
Try  to  count  our  sensations  again  and  again, 
And  then  you  will  know,  perceiving  we  must 
Nourish  some  compound  with  dust  of  dust, 
And  seeing  how  short  our  sensations  and  powers, 

Why  I  am  one, 

Who  sits  in  the  sun, 

Whose  Time  is  no  limited  number  of  hours, 
But  wine  ever-present,  in  nectarine  showers. 

12. 

O  Mutability,  dread  abstraction, 
Let  me  be  wise  in  the  satisfaction 
Of  my  moderate  needs  in  a  half-inaction  ! 
While  Propertius  grows  love-sick  and  weary  and  wan, 
While  thou,  Virgil,  singest  of  arms  and  the  man, 
While  assassins  on  Caesar  sharpen  their  eyes, 

While  Agrippa  stands  grimly  on  blood-stained  decks, 
While  Maecenas  flirts  with  the  female  sex, 
Teach  me  to  sport  and  philosophize  ! 


FINE    WEATHER   ON  THE  DIGENTIA.      139 

O  Mutability,  lasting  ever, 

Changing  ever,  yet  changing  never, 
Teach  me,  O  teach  me,  and  make  me  wise  !  — 
In  the  dreadful  depth  of  thy  eyeballs  dumb, 

Strange  meanings  flutter  and  pass  to  naught, 
And  beautiful  images  fade  as  they  come, 

Thro'  an  under-trouble  of  shady  thought ! 


Yonder,  yonder,  the  River  doth  run, 
From  sun  to  shade,  and  from  shade  to  sun, 

Shaking  the  lilies  to  seed  as  it  flows, 

Under  the  willow-trees  taking  a  doze, 
And  waking  up  in  a  flutter  of  fun  ! 
Could  you  look  at  the  leaves  of  yonder  tree  ! 
The  wind  is  stirring  them  as  the  sun  is  stirring  me  ! 
The  woolly  clouds  move  quiet  and  slow, 

In  the  pale  blue  calm  of  the  tranquil  skies, 
And  their  shades  that  run  on  the  grass  below 

Leave  purple  dreams  in  the  violet's  eyes ! 
The  vine  droops  over  my  head  with  bright 

Clusters  of  purple  and  green  —  the  rose 

Breaks  her  heart  on  the  air  —  and  the  orange  glows 
Like  golden  lamps  in  an  emerald  night* 
While  I  sit,  with  the  stain  of  the  wine  on  my  lip, 
Shall  nature  and  I  part  fellowship  ? 
No,  by  Bacchus  !    This  view  from  the  threshold  of  home 
Is  as  glad  to  the  core,  and  as  sorrow-despising, 
As  Aphrodite*  when  fresh  from  the  foam 
That  still  on  her  bosom  was  falling  and  rising, 
While  the  sunshine  crept  thro'  her  briny  hair 
And  mingled  itself  with  the  shadows  there, 

*  Golden  lamps  in  a  green  night.  —ANDREW  MARVEL. 


140  THE   UNDERTONES. 

And  her  deepening  eyes  drank  their  azure  from  air, 
And  she  blush'd  a  new  beauty  surpassingly  fair ! 

14. 

'T  is  absurd  to  tell  me  to  ruffle  a  feather, 
Because  there  may  soon  be  a  change  of  weather. 
When  the  Dog-Star  foams,  I  will  lie  in  the  shade, 
And  watch  the  white  sun  thro'  an  emerald  glade  ; 
When  winter  murmurs  with  rain  and  storm, 
I  will  watch  my  hearth  smile  to  itself,  and  keep  warm  ; 
And  for  Death,  who  having  fulfilled  his  task 

Leaves  his  deputy  Silence  in  houses  of  mourning,  — 
Well,  I  hope  he  no  troublesome  questions  will  ask, 

But  knock  me  down,  like  an  ox,  without  warning. 
Like  the  world,  I  most  solemnly  promise  devotion 
To  pleasure  commingled  of  light,  music,  motion. 
I  like  (as  I  said)  to  sit  here  in  my  mirth, 
To  be  part  of  the  joy  of  the  sweet-smelling  earth, 
To  feel  the  blood  blush  like  a  flower  with  its  glee, 
To  sing  like  a  bird,  to  be  stirr'd  like  a  tree, 
Drowsily,  drowsily,  sit  at  mine  ease, 
While  the  odd  rhymes  buzz  in  my  brain  like  bees, 
And  over  my  wine-cup  to  chirp  and  to  nod, 
Ay  to  sit  —  till  I  fall 
Like  that  peach  from  the  wall  — 
Self-sufficient,  serene,  happy-eyed,  —  like  a  GOD  ! 

(Bibit.) 

15- 
Ay,  crop  the  corn  with  the  crooked  sickle, 

Sow  harvest  early  and  reap  too  late, 
Prove  Fortune  friendly  or  false  or  fickle, 

Blunder  and  bother  with  aching  pate, 
Attempting  to  conquer  chance  or  fate, 


FINE    WEATHER   ON  THE  DIGENTIA.     141 

Struggle,  speculate,  dig,  and  bleed, 
Reap  the  whirlwind  of  Venus'  seed, 

0  senseless,  impotent  human  breed  ! 

What  avails  !  what  avails  !     Were  ye  less  intent 
On  your  raking  and  digging,  perchance  ye  'd  behold 
The  fleecy  vapors  above  you  roll'd 
Round  the  dozing  Deities  dead  to  strife, 
With  their  mild  great  eyes  on  each  other  bent 
Exchanging  a  wisdom  indifferent 
To  the  native  honors  of  death  and  life. 
Sober  truths  of  a  pleasure  divine 
Keep  them  supine  ! 

The  grand  lazy  fellows  have  nothing  to  do 
With  the  hubble  and  trouble  of  me  or  of  you, 
The  stars  break  around  them  in  silver  foam, 
And  they  calmly  amuse  themselves,  sometimes,  by  steal- 
ing 

A  peep  at  us  pygmies,  with  much  the  same  feeling 
With  which,  from  the  candor  and  quiet  of  home, 

1  glance  at  the  strife  of  political  Rome. 
Serene,  happy-eyed,  self-sufficient,  they  rest 

On  the  hill  where  the  blue  sky  is  leaning  her  breast:  — 
Jove  seated  supreme  in  the  midst,  at  his  side 

Apollo  the  Sun  and  Selene  the  Moon, 
Juno  half  dozing,  her  foot  of  pride 
On  the  neck  of  Venus  the  drowsy-eyed, 

And  Pallas  humming  the  spheric  tune. 

16. 

Flash  ! 

Lightning,  I  swear  !  —  there 's  a  tempest  brewing  ! 

Crash  ! 

Thunder,  too  —  swift-footed  lightning  pursuing  ! 

The  leaves  are  troubled,  the  winds  drop  dead, 


142  THE   UNDERTONES. 

The  air  grows  ruminant  overhead  — 

Splash ! 

That  great  round  drop  fell  pat  on  my  nose. 

Flash  !  crash  !  splash  !  — 

I  must  run  for  it,  I  suppose. 

O  what  a  flashing  and  crashing  and  splashing, 

The  earth  is  rocking,  the  skies  are  riven  — 
Jove  in  a  passion,  in  god-like  fashion, 

Is  breaking  the  crystal  urns  of  heaven. 


XVIII. 

FINE   WEATHER    BY 
VIRGIL  TO  HORACE. 


SWEET  is  soft  slumber,  Horace,  after  toil, 
To  him  who  holds  the  glebe  and  ploughs  the  fruit- 
ful soil, 
Sweet  to  salt-blooded  mariners,  on  decks  washed  red 

with  storm, 

Deep  sleep  wherein  past  tempest  and  green  waves 
Make  shadows  multiform ; 

2. 

Sweet 't  is  to  Caesar,  when  the  red  star,  grown 
Swart  with  war's  dust,  doth  fade,  to  loll  upon  a  throne 
Dispensing  gifts,  while  on  his  lips  a  crafty  half-smile 

dies, 

And  the  soft  whispers  of  approving  Rome 
Fan  his  half-closed  eyes  ! 


FINE    WEATHER  BY  BAI&.  143 

3- 

Sweet  to  Tibullus,  sick  and  out  of  tune, 

What  time  his  elegies  like  wolves  howl  at  the  moon, 

Comes  Pity  loos'ning  Delia's  zone  as  breezes  part  a 

cloud ; 

And  sweet  to  thee  a  wine-cup  rough  with  sleep, 
After  the  tawny  crowd. 

4- 

And  further,  sweetly  comes  a  scroll  from  thee 
To  Virgil  where  he  dwells  at  Baiae  near  the  sea  — 
For,  sick  with  servile  snakes  of  state  that  twine  round 

Caesar's  foot, 

He  welcomes  thy  moist  greeting  and  thy  thought 
Poetically  put. 

5- 

Such  alternation  of  unrest  and  rest, 
All  fitful  peace  and  passion  of  the  yearning  breast, 
Deepen  the  meanings  flashing  swift  in  Joy's  pink-lidded 

eyne, 

And  help  the  Hours  to  juggle  with  the  fruits 
Of  easy  creeds  like  thine. 

6. 

The  time-glass  runs,  the  seasons  come  and  go, 

After  the  rain,  the  flowers,  after  the  flowers,  the  snow ; 

This  Hour  is  pale  and  olive-crown'd,  that  splash'd  with 

rebel-mud  — 

This,  flusht  to  gaze  on  Caesar's  laurell'd  brows, 
That,  drunk  with  Caesar's  blood  ! 

7- 

Shall  merest  mortal  man  with  drowsy  nod 
Sit  under  purple  vine  and  doze  and  ape  the  god  ? 


144  THE   UNDERTONES. 

Wave  down  the  everlasting  strife  of  earth  and  air  and 

sea  ? 

And,  like  a  full-fed  fruit  that  gorges  light, 
Grow  rotten  on  the  tree  ? 


Leave  the  grand  mental  war  that  mortals  keep  ? 
Eat  the  fat  ears  of  corn,  yet  neither  sow  nor  reap  ? 
Loll  in  the  sunshine,  sipping  sweets,  what  time  the  din 

of  fights 

Quenches  the  wind  round  Troy,  and  very  gods 
Feel  dizzy  on  their  heights  ? 

9- 

Nay,  friend  !  —  For  such  a  man  each  hour  supplies 
Portents  that  mock  his  ease,  affright  his  languid  eyes : 
The  very  elements  are  leagued  to  goad  him  blood  and 

brain, 

The  very  Sun  sows  drouth  within  his  throat 
Until  it  raves  for  rain  ! 

10. 

Methinks  I  see  thee  sitting  in  the  sun, 
Whose  kisses  melt  thy  crusty  wrinkles  one  by  one : 
Thy  lips  droop  darkly  with  a  worm  of  thought,  half  sad, 

half  wroth, 

Which  stirs  the  chrysalis  mouth,  then,  ripe  with  wine, 
Bursts  like  a  golden  moth. 

ii. 

Unfaith  is  with  thee,  Horace.     Sun  and  wind 
Disturb  the  tranquil  currents  of  thy  heart  and  mind  ; 
In  midst  of  Joy,  comes  pygmy  doubt,  prick-pricking  like 
a  flea, 


FINE    WEATHER  BY  BAI&.  145 

Till,  wide  awake,  you  rack  your  brains  to  prove 
Your  perfect  joy  to  me. 

12. 

O  better  far,  if  Man  would  climb,  to  range 
Thro'  sun  and  thunder-storm  tempestuous  paths  of 

change,  4 

To  mingle  with  the  motion  huge  of  earth  and  air  and 

main, 
And  lastly,  fall  upon  a  bed  of  flowers 

When  wearied  down  by  pain. 

13- 

Deep,  deep  within  Man's  elemental  parts  — 
Earth,  water,  fire,  and  air  that  mix  in  human  hearts,  — 
Subsists  Unrest  that  seeketh  Rest,  and  flashes  into 

gleams 

That  haunt  the  soul  to  action,  and  by  night 
Disturb  our  sleep  with  dreams. 

14. 

And  thus  we  fashion  with  a  piteous  will 
The  gods  in  drowsy  mildness  seated  on  a  hill, 
The  day  before  them  evermore,  the  starry  night  be- 
hind, — 
Inheritors  of  the  divine  repose 

We  seek  and  cannot  find. 

15- 

WToe,  woe  to  him  who  craving  that  calm  boon 
Falleth  to  sleep  on  beds  of  poppy  flowers  too  soon  ! 
The  elements  shall  hem  him  in  and  fright  his  shrieking 

soul, 

And,  since  he  asks  for  light,  Lightning  itself 
Shall  scorch  his  eyes  to  coal ! 


146  THE   UNDERTONES. 

16. 

My  Horace  !  —  I  am  here  beside  the  deep, 
Weaving  at  will  this  verse  for  Memory  to  keep  : 
I  share  the  sunshine  with  my  friend,  and  like  a  lizard 

bask; 

But  I,  friend,  doubt  this  summer  joy,  —  and  you 
Shall  answer  what  I%sk.  — 


Bluff  March  has  blown  his  clarion  out  of  tune, 
Gone  is  the  blue-edged  sickle  of  the  April  moon  ; 
Faded  hath  fretful   May  behind  a  tremulous  veil  of 

rain,  — 

But  I  would  the  boisterous  season  of  the  winds 
And  snows  were  here  again  ! 


1  8. 

For  I  am  kneeling  on  the  white  sea-sand, 
Letting  the  cold  soft  waves  creep  up  and  kiss  my  hand  ; 
A  golden  glare  of  sunshine  fills  the  blue  air  at  my  back, 
And  swims  between  the  meadows  and  the  skies, 
Leaving  the  meadows  black. 

19- 

All  is  as  still  and  beautiful  as  sleep  : 

Nay,  all  is  sleep  —  the  quiet  air,  the  azure  deep  ; 

The  cool  blue  waves  creep  thro'  my  fingers  with  a  silver 

gleam, 

As,  lost  in  utter  calm,  I  neither  think 
Nor  act,  but  only  dream. 

20. 

This  is  the  poetry  of  Heart's  repose, 
.For  which  my  spirit  yearn'd  thro'  drifting  winds  and 
snows  — 


FINE    WEATHER  BY  BAIJE.  147 

Only  the  tingling  coolness  on  my  hand  seems  part  akin 
To  that  bleak  winter  warring  when  the  dream 
Of  peace  arose  within. 

21. 

What  time  I  dream'd  of  this,  the  winds,  cast  free, 
Swoop'd  eagle-like  and  tore  the  white  bowels  of  the 

sea; 
The  winter  tempest  moved  above,  and  storm  on  storm 

did  frown ;  — 

I  saw  the  awful  Sea  bound  up  in  cloud 
And  then  torn  hugely  down. 

22. 

Within  my  blood  arose  the  wild  commotion, 
My  soul  was  battling  abroad  with  winds  and  ocean  ; 
But  in  the  centre  of  the  wrath,  all  nature,  s£a  and  sky, 
Call'd  out  aloud  for  peace  divine  as  this, 
And  lo,  I  join'd  the  cry. 

23- 

And  calm  has  come,  and  June  is  on  the  deep, 
The  winds  are   nested,  and  the   earth   takes   mellow 

sleep  ; 
Yet,  friend,  my  soul,  though  husht  in  awe,  feels  peace 

so  still  is  pain, — 

And  the  monotonous  yearning  voice  within 
Calls  out  for  war  again  ! 

24. 

For  hark !  into  my  dream  of  golden  ease 
Breaketh  the  hollow  murmur  of  untroubled  seas  ; 
And  behold,  my  blood  awakens  with  a  thrill  and  sinks 
and  swells, 


I48  THE   UNDERTONES. 

As  when  low  breezes  die  and  rise  again 
On  beds  of  asphodels. 


25. 

Ay,  now,  when  all  is  placid  as  a  star, 
My  soul  in  incompleteness  longs  for  active  war  ; 
Amid  its  utter  happiness,  it  sighs  imperfectly 
In  answer  to  the  beautiful  unrest 

Within  the  sleeping  sea. 

26. 

Unsatisfied,  I  hunger  on  the  land, 

Only  subdued  by  this  bright  water  on  my  hand  ; 

The  beating  heart  within  my  breast  for  louder  utterance 

yearns  — 
I  listen,  and  the  sympathetic  sea 

Its  endless  moan  returns. 

27. 

Quiet,  monotonous,  breathless,  almost  drown'd, 
Inaudibly  audible,  felt  scarce  heard,  cometh  the  sound, 
Monotonous,  so  monotonous,   but  oh !   so   sweet,   so 

sweet, 

When  my  hid  heart  is  throbbing  forth  a  voice, 
And  the  two  voices  meet. 

28. 

The  void  within  the  calm  for  which  I  yearned 
Until  this  moment  was  imperfectly  discerned  ; 
But  now  I  feel  to  the  roots  of  life  an  inner  melody, 
That  harmonizes  my  unquiet  heart 
With  the  unquiet  sea. 


FINE    WEATHER  BY  BAI&.  149 

29. 

Hear  I  the  crawling  movements  of  the  main  ? 
Or  hear  I  dim  heart-echoes  dying  in  the  brain  ? 
Is  there  but  one  impatient  moan,  and  is  it  of  the  sea  ? 
And,  if  two  voices  speak,  which  voice  belongs 
To  ocean,  which  to  me  ? 

30. 

The  sounds  have  mingled  into  some  faint  whole, 
Inseparate,  trembling  o'er  the  fibres  of  my  soul  ; 
And  the  cool  waves  have  a  magic  all  my  swooning  blood 

to  quell  ; 

The  sea  glides  thro'  and  thro'  me,  and  my  soul 
Keeps  sea-sound  like  a  shell. 


Ah,  the  monotonous  music  in  my  soul, 
Enlarging  like  the  waves,  murmuring  without  control  !  — 
Is  it  that  changeful  nature  can  rest  not  night  nor  day? 
And  is  the  music  born  of  this  lorn  Man, 
Or  Ocean,  —  Horace,  say  ? 

32. 

Is  there  a  climbing  element  in  life 
Which  is  at  war  with  rest,  alternates  strife  with  strife, 
Whereby  we  reach  eternal  seas  upon  whose  shores 

unstirr'd 

Ev'n  Joy  can  sleep,  —  because  no  moan  like  this 
Within  those  waves  is  heard  ? 


150  THE   UNDERTONES. 

XIX. 
THE    SWAN-SONG    OF    APOLLO. 


O 


LYRE  !    O  Lyre  ! 

Strung  with  celestial  fire  ! 
Thou  living  soul  of  sound  that  answereth 

These  fingers  that  have  troubled  thee  so  long, 
With  passion,  and  with  radiance,  and  with  breath 
Of  melancholy  song,  — 

Answer,  answer,  answer  me, 
With  thy  withering  melody  ! 
For  the  earth  is  old,  and  strange 
Mysteries  are  working  change, 
And  the  Dead  who  slumber'd  deep 
Startle  troubled  from  their  sleep, 
And  the  ancient  gods  divine, 
Pale  and  haggard  o'er  their  wine, 

Fade  in  their  ghastly  banquet-halls,  with  large  eyes  fixed 
on  mine ! 

2. 

Ah  me !  ah  me ! 
The  earth  and  air  and  sea, 
Are  shaken  ;  and  the  great  pale  gods  sit  still, 

The  roseate  mists  around  them  roll  away :  — 
Lo  !     Hebe  listens  in  the  act  to  fill, 
And  groweth  wan  and  gray  ; 
On  the  banquet-table  spread, 
Fruits  and  flowers  grow  sick  and  dead, 


THE  SWAN-SONG   OF  APOLLO.  151 

Pale  pure  mead  in  every  cup 
Gleams  to  blood  and  withers  up  ; 
Aphrodite*  breathes  a  charm, 
Gripping  Pallas'  bronze'd  arm  ; 
Zeus  the  Father  clenches  teeth, 
While  his  cloud-throne  shakes  beneath  ; 
The  passion-flower  in   Herd's  hair  melts  in  a  snowy 
wreath  ! 

3- 

Ah,  woe  !  ah,  woe  ! 
One  climbeth  from  below,  — 
A  mortal  shape  with  pallid  smile  divine, 

Bearing  a  heavy  Cross  and  crown'd  with  thorn,  — 
His  brow  is  moist  with  blood,  his  strange  sweet  eyne 
Look  piteous  and  forlorn  : 

Hark,  O  hark  !  his  cold  foot-fall 
Breaks  upon  the  banquet-hall ! 
God  and  goddess  start  to  hear,      ^ 
Earth,  air,  ocean,  moan  in  fear  ; 
Shadows  of  the  Cross  and  Him 
Dark  the  banquet-table  dim, 
Silent  sit  the  gods  divine, 
Old  and  haggard  over  wine, 

And  slowly  to  thy  song  they  fade,  with  large  eyes  fixed 
on  mine  ! 

4- 

O  Lyre  !     O  Lyre  ! 
Thy  strings  of  golden  fire 
Fade  to  their  fading,  and  the  hand  is  chill 
That  touches  thee  ;  the  great  bright  brow  grows 

gray  — 

I  faint,  I  wither,  while  that  conclave  still 
Dies  wearily  away ! 


152  THE   UNDERTONES. 

Ah,  the  prophecy  of  old 
Sung  by  us  to  smilers  cold  !  — 
God  and  goddess  pale  and  die, 
Chilly  cold  against  the  sky, 
There  is  change  and  all  is  done, 
Strange  look  Moon  and  Stars  and  Sun ! 
God  and  goddess  fade,  and  see  ! 
All  their  large  eyes  look  at  me  ! 

While  woe  !  ah,  woe !  in  dying  song,  I  fade,  I  fade,  with 
thee! 


POET'S    EPILOGUE. 
TO    MARY    ON    EARTH. 

"  Simplex  munditiis  1 " 


SO  !  now  the  task  is  ended ;  and  to-night, 
Sick,  impotent,  no  longer  soul-sustain'd, 
Withdrawing  eyes  from  that  ideal  height 
Where,  in  low  undertones,  those  Spirits  plain'd, 
Each  full  of  special  glory  unattain'd,  — 
I  turn  on  you,  Sweet-Heart,  my  weary  sight.  — 
Shut  out  the  darkness,  shutting  in  the  light : 
So  !  now  the  task  is  ended.     What  is  gain'd  ? 

2. 

First,  sit  beside  me.     Place  your  hand  in  mine. 
From  deepest  fountain  of  your  veins  the  while 
Call  up  your  Soul ;  and  briefly  let  it  shine 
In  those  gray  eyes  with  mildness  feminine. 
Yes,  smile,  Dear  !  —  you  are  truest  when  you  smile. 

3- 

My  heart  to-night  is  calm  as  peaceful  dreams.  — 

Afar  away  the  wind  is  shrill,  the  culver 

Blows  up  and  down  the  moors  with  windy  gleams, 

The  birch  unlooseneth  her  locks  of  silver 

And  shakes  them  softly  on  the  mountain  streams, 


154  THE    UNDERTONES. 

And  o'er  the  grave  that  holds  my  David's  dust 

The  Moon  uplifts  her  empty  dripping  horn  : 

Thither  my  fancies  turn,  but  turn  in  trust, 

Not  wholly  sadly,  faithful  though  forlorn. 

For  you,  too,  love  him,  mourn  his  life's  quick  fleeting ; 

We  think  of  him  in  common.     Is  it  so  ?  — 

Your  little  hand  has  answer'd,  and  I  know 

His  name  makes  music  in  your  heart's  soft  beating  ; 

And well,  'tis  something  gain'd  for  him  and  me  — 

Him,  in  his  heaven,  and  me,  in  this  low  spot, 
Something  his  eyes  will  see,  and  joy  to  see  — 
That  you,  too,  love  him,  though  you  knew  him  not. 

4- 

Yet  this  is  bitter.     We  were  boy  and  boy, 
Hand  link'd  in  hand  we  dreamt  of  power  and  fame, 
We  shared  each  other's  sorrow,  pride,  and  joy, 
To  one  wild  tune  our  swift  blood  went  and  came, 
Eyes  drank  each  other's  hope  with  flash  of  flame. 
Then,  side  by  side,  we  clomb  the  hill  of  life, 
We  ranged  thro'  mist  and  mist,  thro'  storm  and  strife  ; 

But  then, it  is  so  bitter,  now,  to  feel 

That  his  pale  Soul  to  mine  was  so  akin, 

Firm-fix'd  on  goals  we  each  set  forth  to  win, 

So  twinly  conscious  of  the  sweet  Ideal, 

So  wedded  (God  forgive  me  if  I  sin  ! ) 

That  neither  he,  my  friend,  nor  I  could  steal 

One  glimpse  of  heaven's  divinities  —  alone, 

And  flushing  seek  his  brother,  and  reveal 

Some  hope,  some  joy,  some  beauty,  else  unknown  ; 

Nor,  bringing  down  his  sunlight  from  the  Sun, 

Call  sudden  up,  to  light  his  fellow's  face, 

A  smile  as  proud,  as*  glad,  as  that  I  trace 

In  your  dear  eyes,  now,  when  my  work  is  done. 


TO  MARY  ON  EARTH.  155 

5- 

Love  gains  in  giving.     What  had  I  to  give 
Whereof  his  Poet-Soul  was  not  possest  ? 
What  gleams  of  stars  he  knew  not,  fugitive 
As  lightning-flashes,  could  I  manifest  ? 
What  music  fainting  in  a  clearer  air  ? 
What  lights  of  sunrise  from  beyond  the  grave  ? 
What  pride  in  knowledge  that  he  could  not  share  ?  — 
Ay,  Mary,  it  is  bitter,  for  I  swear 
He  took  with  him,  to  heav'n,  no  wealth  I  gave. 

6. 

No,  Love,  it  is  not  bitter !     Thoughts  like  those 
Were  sin  these  songs  I  sing  you  must  adjust. 
Not  bitter,  ah,  not  bitter  !  —  God  is  just ; 
And,  seeing  our  one-knowledge,  just  God  chose, 
By  one  swift  stroke,  to  part  us.     Far  above 
The  measure  of  my  hope,  my  pride,  my  love, 
Above  our  seasons,  suns  and  rains  and  snows,  — 
He,  like  an  exhalation,  thus  arose 
Hearing  in  a  diviner  atmosphere 
Music  we  only  see,  when,  dewy  and  dim, 
The  stars  thro'  gulfs  of  azure  darkness  swim, 
Music  I  seem  to  see,  but  cannot  hear. 
But  evermore,  my  Poet,  on  his  height, 
Fills  up  my  Soul  with  sweetness  to  the  brim, 
Rains  influence,  and  warning,  and  delight ; 
And  now,  I  smile  for  pride  and  joy  in  him  ! 

7- 

I  said,  Love  gains  by  giving.     And  to  know 
That  I,  who  could  not  glorify  my  Friend, 
Soul  of  my  Soul,  although  I  loved  him  so,  ^ 

Have  power  and  strength  and  privilege  to  lend 


156  THE    UNDERTONES. 

Glimpses  of  heav'n  to  Thee,  of  hope,  of  bliss  ! 
Power  to  go  heavenward,  pluck  flowers  and  blend 
Their  hues  in  wreaths  I  give  you  with  a  kiss  — 
You,  Love,  who  climb  not  up  the  heights  at  all ! 
To  think,  to  think,  I  never  could  upcall 
On  his  dead  face  so  proud  a  smile  as  this  ! 


Most  just  is  God :  who  bids  me  not  be  sad 
For  his  dear  sake  whose  name  is  dear  to  thee, 
Who  bids  me  proudly  climb  and  sometimes  see 
With  joy  a  glimpse  of  him  in  glory  clad  ; 
Who,  further,  bids  your  life  be  proud  and  glad, 
When  I  have  climb'd  and  seen,  for  joy  in  me. 
My  lowly-minded,  gentle-hearted  Love  ! 
I  bring  you  down  his  gifts,  and  am  sustain'd  : 
You  watch  and  pray  —  I  climb  —  he  stands  above. 
So,  now  the  task  is  ended,  what  is  gain'd  ? 


This  knowledge.  —  Better  in  your  arms  to  rest, 
Better  to  love  you  till  my  heart  should  break, 
Than  pause  to  ask  if  he  who  would  be  blest 
Should  love  for  more  than  his  own  loving's  sake. 
So  closer,  closer  still ;  for  (while  afar, 
Mile  upon  mile  toward  the  polar  star, 
Now  in  the  autumn  time  our  Poet's  dust 
Sucks  back  thro'  grassy  sods  the  flowers  it  thrust 
.To  feel  the  summer  on  the  outer  earth) 
I  turn  to  you,  and  on  your  bosom  fall. 
I/)ve  grows  by  giving.     I  have  given  my  all. 
So,  smile  —  to  show  you  hold  the  gift  of  worth. 


TO  MARY  ON  EARTH.  157 

10. 

Ay,  all  the  thanks  that  I  on  earth  can  render 

To  him  who  sends  me  such  good  news  from  God, 

Is,  in  due  turn,  to  thy  young  life  to  tender 

Hopes  that  denote,  while  blossoming  in  splendor, 

Where  an  invisible  Angel's  foot  hath  trode. 

So,  Sweet-Heart,  I  have  given  unto  thee, 

Not  only  such  poor  song  as  here  I  twine, 

But  Hope,  Ambition,  all  of  mine  or  me, 

My  flesh  and  blood,  and  more,  my  Soul  divine. 

Take  all,  take  all !     Ay,  wind  white  arms  about 

My  neck  and  from  my  Soul  draw  bliss  for  thine  : 

Smile,  Sweet-Heart,  and  be  happy  —  lest  thou  doubt 

How  much  the  gift  I  give  thee  makes  thee  mine '! 


IDYLS     AND     LEGENDS 
OF    INVERBURN. 


PREAMBLE. 


To  Inverburn,  well  loved,  well  memoried, 
The  pink  of  ancient  Scottish  villages  1 
When  Spring,  a  herald  bright  apparelled, 
Stood  on  the  mountain-tops  and  blew  aloud 
The  clarion  of  the  winds,  ere  pacing  slow 
On  dewy  foot  into  the  dusky  dells,  — 
To  Inverburn,  whose  quiet  catches  not 
The  smoky  rumor  of  a  city's  sin, 
To  Inverbum,  by  rail  and  road,  I  fled. 


TO  breathe  the  glory  of  the  taintless  air 
With  pleasurable  pantings  of  the  blood, 
To  wander  over  sweetly-smelling  fields, 
To  lie  upon  the  heathery  slopes  and  dream, 
To  dream,  to  plan,  to  picture,  —  surely  this 
Were  sweeter  than  to  share  the  smoke  with  Higgs, 
The  callous  cockney  with  the  humorous  vein, 
In  Babylonia  ?     Wherefore,  for  a  time, 
I  vow'd  to  slough  the  chrysalis  of  the  grub 
Of  Grub  Street,  and  become  a  butterfly 
Blown  with  no  will  thro'  thyme  and  heather-bells 
By  the  mild  motion  of  the  country  air,  — 
And  in  the  woods  and  meadows  I  might  glean 
Such  consciousness  of  pastoral  content, 
As  should  compose  the  frenzy  in  the  eyes 
And  cool  the  fever  of  the  lips  that  thirst. 

One  night,  I  lay  as  restless  as  a  slave 
For  whom  the  darkness  glimmers,  froths,  and  makes 


1 62  PREAMBLE. 

A  picture  of  a  tawny  mother's  face 

Sunlit  and  looking  westward  'neath  the  palm  ; 

The  next,  beneath  the  shade  of  Arthur's  Seat, 

I  slept  as  rich  a  slumber  as  a  maid 

Whose  soul  shuts  softly  like  a  rose's  leaves 

To  keep  its  dewy  love-dream  warm  and  sure ; 

Then,  lastly,  westward  I  was  whirl'd  by  train, 

And  lighting  at  a  lonely  halting-place  — 

Whence  far  away  I  watch'd  the  city's  smoke 

Float  dim  and  spiral  in  the  fading  east  — 

Walkt  seven  Scots  miles  by  wood  and  stream  and  moor, 

And  saw  the  sunset  redden  Inverburn. 

Seven  pleasant  miles  by  wood  and  stream  and  moor, 
Seven  miles  along  the  country  road  that  wound 
Uphill  and  downhill  in  a  thin  red  line, 
Then  from  the  forehead  of  a  hill,  behold  — 
Lying  below  me,  sparkling  ruby-like,  — 
The  village  !  —  quaint  old  gables,  roofs  of  thatch, 
A  glimmering  spire  that  peep'd  above  the  firs, 
The  sunset  lingering  orange-red  on  all, 
And  hearer,  tumbling  thro'  a  mossy  bridge, 
The  river  that  I  knew  !     No  wondrous  peep 
Into  the  faery  land  of  Oberon, 
Its  bowers,  its  glowworm-lighted  colonnades 
Where  pygmy  lovers  wander  two  by  two, 
Could  weigh  upon  the  city  wanderer's  heart 
With  peace  so  pure  as  this !     Why,  yonder  stood, 
A  fledgeling's  downward  flight  beyond  the  spire, 
The  gray  old  manse,  endear'd  by  memories 
Of  Jean  the  daughter  of  the  minister ; 
Arid  in  the  cottage  with  the  painted  sign, 
Hard  by  the  bridge,  how  many  a  winter  night 
Had  I  with  politicians  sapient-eyed 


PREAMBLE.  163 

Discuss'd  the  county  paper's  latest  news 

And  tippled    Sandie's  best !  —  And    naught    seem'd 

changed ! 

The  very  gig  before  the  smithy  door, 
The  barefoot  lassie  with  the  milking  pail 
Pausing  and  looking  backward  from  the  bridge, 
The  last  rook  wavering  homeward  to  the  wood, 
All  seem'd  a  sunset-picture,  every  tint 
Unchanged,  since  I  had  bade  the  place  farewell. 
My  heart  grew  garrulous  of  olden  times 
And  my  face  sadden'd,  as  I  saunter'd  down. 
There  came  a  rural  music  on  my  ears,  — 
The  wagons  in  the  lanes,  the  waterfall 
With  cool  sound  plunging  in  its  wood-nest  wild, 
The  rooks  amid  the  windy  rookery, 
The  shouts  of  children,  and  afar  away 
The  crowing  of  a  cock.     Then  o'er  the  bridge 
I  bent,  above  the  river  gushing  down 
Thro'  mossy  boulders,  making  underneath 
Green-shaded  pools  where  now  and  then  a  trout 
Sank  in  the  ripple  of  its  own  quick  leap ; 
And  like  some  olden  and  familiar  tune, 
Half  humm'd  aloud,  half  tinkling  in  the  brain, 
Troublously,  faintly,  came  the  buzz  of  looms. 

And  here  I  linger'd,  nested  in  the  shade 
Of  Peace  that  makes  a  music  as  she  grows  ; 
And  when  the  vale  had  put  its  glory  on 
The  bitter  aspiration  was  subdued, 
And  Pleasure,  tho'  she  wore  a  woodland  crown, 
Look'd  at  me  with  Ambition's  serious  eyes. 
Amid  the  deep  green  woods  of  pine,  whose  boughs 
Made  a  sea-music  overhead,  and  caught 
White  flakes  of  sunlight  on  their  highest  leaves, 


164  PREAMBLE. 

I  foster'd  solemn  meditations  ; 

Stretch'd  on  the  sloping  river  banks,  fresh  prink'd 

With  gowans  and  the  meek  anemone, 

I  watch'd  the  bright  king-fisher  dart  about, 

His  quick  small  shadow  with  an  azure  gleam 

Startling  the  minnows  in  the  pool  beneath ; 

Or  out  upon  the  moors,  where  far  away 

Across  the  waste  the  sportsman  with  his  gun 

Stood  a  dark  speck  across  the  sky,  what  time 

The  heath-hen  flounder'd  thro'  the  furze  and  fell, 

I  caught  the  solemn  wind  that  wander'd  down 

With  thunder-echoes  heaved  among  the  hills. 

Nor  lack'd  I,  in  the  balmy  summer  nights, 

Or  on  the  days  of  rain,  such  counterpoise 

As  books  can  give.     The  honey-languaged  Greek 

Who  gently  piped  the  sweet  bucolic  lay, 

The  wit  who  raved  of  Lesbia's  loosen'd  zone 

And  loved  divinely  what  was  less  than  earth, 

Were  with  me  ;  others,  of  a  later  date  : 

The  eagle-eyed  comedian  divine  ; 

The  English  Homer,  not  the  humpback'd  one 

Who  sung  Belinda's  curl  at  Twickenham, 

But  Chapman,  master  of  the  solemn  line  ; 

Moreover,  those  few  singers  who  have  lit 

The  beacon-lights  of  these  our  latter  days  — 

Chief,  young  Hyperion,  who  setting  soon 

Sent  his  pale  look  along  the  future  time, 

And  the  tall  figure  on  the  hills,  that  stoopt 

To  see  the  daisy's  shadow  on  the  grass. 

But  Higgs  was  in  my  spirit  now  and  then, 
Pricking  me  like  a  thorn,  the  cynic  Higgs, 
The  representative  of  all  his  race  ; 
And  looking  round  upon  the  courteous  vale, 


PREAMBLE.  165 

I  probed  the  wound  and  argued  with  my  heart. 

"  Fame,"  said  I,  u  is  a  problem  Poets  solve 

By  looking  outward  for  the  Beautiful : 

The  one  exists  beyond  us,  in  the  skies, 

And  in  the  legible  gospel  of  the  earth  ; 

The  other  is  conferr'd,  wherever  Truth 

Demands  it,  from  the  living  Poet's  soul." 

And  in  mine  inner  ear  methought  I  heard 

The  mellow  winy  laugh  I  hated  so. 

For  "Sing  your  loudest,"  whisper'd  Higgs  ;  "devote 

Three  precious  summers  (like  a  friend  of  mine) 

To  learning  how  to  paint  a  cabbage-rose  ; 

Plot,  plan,  devise,  refine,  burn  midnight  oil, 

Plod,  labor  :  Who  will  thank  you  ?     Faith,  not  I. 

Your  utmost :  you  can  tell  us  nothing  new." 

The  scented  sweetness  of  the  placid  vale 

Blew  on  my  cheek,  and  help'd  me  in  my  need ; 

Mild  influences  blew  my  gloomy  mood 

Apart,  as  softest  breezes  part  a  cloud ; 

And  lark-like  launch'd  to  ether  by  my  joy, 

I  sang  for  singing's  sake  —  until  at  last, 

I  listen'd  for  the  voice  of  Fame,  and  found 

The  viewless  angel  of  the  Beautiful 

Among  the  men  and  women,  and  the  scenes, 

Or  fair  or  true,  which  I,  a  latter  bard, 

Paint  in  the  songs  that  follow. 

Higgs  survives, 

Higgism  is,  has  been,  and  still  will  be  ; 
Nathless  I  sang,  nathless  I  sing.     May  God, 
Even  with  the  purity  of  mine  own  intent, 
Even  with  the  impulse  heavenward  that  remains 
When  much  I  loved  so  well  is  God's  again, 
Hallow  my  singing.     Blow,  thou  balmy  Spring, 


166  PREAMBLE. 

Thy  softest  kisses  on  the  wood-nest  wild 
Where  I  am  lying  !  tip  my  tongue,  O  Spring, 
With  honey,  that  the  heart  of  men  may  hear  ! 
Fly  to  the  city,  Spirit  of  the  Spring, 
Breathe  softly  on  the  lids  of  those  who  read, 
And  make  a  gentle  picture  of  the  scene 
Wherein  these  shapes  and  shadows  come  and  go : 
The  clachan  with  its  humming  sound  of  looms, 
The  small  green  valley  ridged  with  heathery  slopes, 
The  stream  whose  soft  blue  arm  encircles  all, 
And  far  away,  the  northern  mountain-tops, 
Hued  like  the  azure  of  the  dew-berrie, 
And  mingling  with  the  regions  of  the  Rain. 


IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBUKN, 


WILLIE    BAIRD. 


A  WINTER  IDYL. 


>^r 

1 


"  An  old  man's  tale,  a  tale  for  men  gray-hair' d, 
Who  wear,  thro'  second  childhood,  to  the  Lord.' 

IS  two-and-thirty  summers  since  I  came 
To  school  the  village  lads  of  Inverburn. 


My  father  was  a  shepherd  old  and  poor, 
Who,  dwelling  'mong  the  .clouds  on  norland  hills, 
His  tartan  plaidie  on,  and  by  his  side 
His  sheep-dog  running,  redden'd  with  the  winds 
That  whistle  saltly  south  from  Polar  seas  : 
I  follow'd  in  his  footsteps  when  a  boy, 
And  knew  by  heart  the  mountains  round  our  home  ; 
But  when  I  went  to  Edinglass,  to  learn 
At  college  there,  I  look'd  about  the  place, 
And  heard  the  murmur  of  the  busy  streets 
Around  me,  in  a  dream  ;  —  and  only  saw 
The  clouds  that  snorw  around  the  mountain-tops, 
The  mists  that  chase  the  phantom  of  the  moon 
In  lonely  mountain  tarns,  —  and  heard  the  while, 
Not  footsteps  sounding  hollow  to  and  fro, 
But  winds  sough-soughing  thro'  the  woods  of  pine. 
Time  pass'd  ;  and  day  by  day  those  sights  and  sounds 
Grew  fainter,  —  till  they  troubled  me  no  more. 


168    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

O  Willie,  Willie,  are  you  sleeping  sound  ? 
And  can  you  feel  the  stone  that  I  have  placed 
Yonder  above  you  ?     Are  you  dead,  my  doo  ? 
Or  did  you  see  the  shining  Hand  that  parts 
The  clouds  above,  and  becks  the  bonnie  birds, 
Until  they  wing  away,  and  human  eyes, 
That  watch  them  till  they  vanish  in  the  blue, 
Droop  and  grow  tearful  ?     Ay,  I  ken,  I  ken, 
I  'm  talking  folly,  but  I  loved  the  child  ! 
He  was  the  bravest  scholar  in  the  school ! 
He  came  to  teach  the  very  dominie  — 
Me,  with  my  lyart  locks  and  sleepy  heart ! 

O  well  I  mind  the  day  his  mother  brought 
Her  tiny  trembling  tot  with  yellow  hair, 
Her  tiny  poor-clad  tot  six  summers  old, 
And  left  him  seated  lonely  on  a  form 
Before  my  desk.     He  neither  wept  nor  gloom'd  ; 
But  waited  silently,  with  shoeless  feet 
Swinging  above  the  floor  ;  in  wonder  eyed 
The  maps  upon  the  walls,  the  big  blackboard, 
The  slates  and  books  and  copies,  and  my  own 
Gray  hose  and  clumpy  boots  ;  last,  fixing  gaze 
Upon  a  monster  spider's  web  that  fill'd 
One  corner  of  the  whitewash'd  ceiling,  watch'd 
The  speckled  traitor  jump  and  jink  about, 
Till  he  forgot  my  unfamiliar  eyes, 
Weary  and  strange  and  old.     "  Come  here,  my  bairn  ! " 
And  timid  as  a  lamb  he  seedled  up. 
«  What  do  they  call  ye  ?  "     "  Willie,  "  coo'd  the  wean, 
Up-peeping  slyly,  scraping  with  his  feet. 
I  put  my  hand  upon  his  yellow  hair, 
And  cheer'd  him  kindly.     Then  I  bade  him  lift 
The  small  black  bell  that  stands  behind  the  door 


WILLIE  BAIRD.  169 

And  ring  the  shouting  laddies  from  their  play. 
"  Run,  Willie  !  "     And  he  ran,  and  eyed  the  bell, 
Stoop'd  o'er  it,  seem'd  afraid  that  it  would  bite, 
Then  grasp'd  it  firm,  and  as  it  jingled  gave 
A  timid  cry  —  next  laugh'd  to  hear  the  sound  — 
And  ran  full  merry  to  the  door  and  rang, 
And  rang,  and  rang,  while  lights  of  music  lit 
His  pallid  cheek,  till,  shouting,  panting  hard, 
In  ran  the  big  rough  laddies  from  their  play. 

Then  rapping  sharply  on  the  desk  I  drove 
The  laddies  to  their  seats,  and  beckon'd  up 
The  stranger  —  smiling,  bade  him  seat  himself 
And  hearken  to  the  rest.     Two  weary  hours 
Buzz-buzz,  boom-boom,  went  on  the  noise  of  school, 
While  Willie  sat  and  listen'd  open-mouth'd  ; 
Till  school  was  over,  and  the  big  and  small 
Hew  home  in  flocks.     But  Willie  stay'd  behind. 
I  beckon'd  to  the  mannock  with  a  smile, 
And  took  him  on  my  knee  and  crack'd  and  talk'd. 

First,  he  was  timid  ;  next,  grew  bashful ;  next, 
He  warm'd  and  told  me  stories  of  his  home, 
His  father,  mother,  sisters,  brothers,  all ; 
And  how,  when  strong  and  big,  he  meant  to  buy 
A  gig  to  drive  his  father  to  the  kirk ; 
And  how  he  long'd  to  be  a  dominie  : 
Such  simple  prattle  as  I  plainly  see 
You  smile  at.     But  to  little  children  God 
Has  given  wisdom  and  mysterious  power 
Which  beat  the  mathematics.     Quczrere 
Verum  in  sylvis  Academi,  Sir, 
Is  meet  for  men  who  can  afford  to  dwell 
Forever  in  a  garden,  reading  books 


170    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

Of  morals  and  the  logic.     Good  and  well ! 
Give  me  such  tiny  truths  as  only  bloom 
Like  red-tipt  gowans  at  the  hallanstone, 
Or  kindle  softly,  flashing  bright  at  times, 
In  faffing  cottage  fires  ! 

The  laddie  still 

Was  seated  on  my  knee,  when  at  the  door 
We  heard  a  scrape-scrape-scraping :  Willie  prick'd 
His  ears  and  listen'd,  then  he  clapt  his  hands  — 
"  Hey  !  Donald,  Donald,  Donald  ! "     [See  !  the  rogue 
Looks  up  and  blinks  his  eyes  —  he  knows  his  name  !] 
"  Hey,  Donald,  Donald  !  "  Willie  cried.     At  that 
I  saw  beneath  me,  at  the  door,  a  dog  — 
The  very  collie  dozing  at  your  feet, 
His  nose  between  his  paws,  his  eyes  half  closed. 
At  sight  of  Willie,  with  a  joyful  bark 
He  leapt  and  gamboll'd,  eying  me  the  while 
In  queer  suspicion  ;  and  the  mannock  peep'd 
Into  my  face,  while  patting  Donald's  back  — 
"  It 's  Donald  !  he  has  come  to  take  me  home  !  " 

An  old  man's  tale,  a  tale  for  men  gray-hair'd, 
Who  wear,  thro'  second  childhood,  to  the  grave ! 
I  '11  hasten  on.     Thenceforward  Willie  came 
Daily  to  school,  and  daily  to  the  door 
Came  Donald  trotting ;  and  they  homeward  went 
Together  —  Willie  walking  slow  but  sure, 
And  Donald  trotting  sagely  by  his  side. 
[Ay,  Donald,  he  is  dead  !  be  still,  old  man  !] 

What  link  existed,  human  or  divine, 
Between  the  tiny  tot  six  summers  old, 
And  yonder  life  of  mine  upon  the  hills 


WILLIE  BAIRD.  171 

Among  the  mists  and  storms  ?      'T  is   strange,  't  is 

strange  ! 

But  when  I  look'd  on  Willie's  face,  it  seem'd 
That  I  had  known  it  in  some  beauteous  life 
That  I  had  left  behind  me  in  the  north. 
This  fancy  grew  and  grew,  till  oft  I  sat  — 
The  buzzing  school  around  me  —  and  would  seem 
To  be  among  the  mists,  the  tracks  of  rain, 
Nearing  the  hueless  silence  of  the  snow. 
Slowly  and  surely  I  began  to  feel 
That  I  was  all  alone  in  all  the  world, 
And  that  my  mother  and  my  father  slept 
Far,  far  away,  in  some  forgotten  kirk  — 
Remember'd  but  in  dreams.     Alone  at  nights, 
I  read  my  Bible  more  and  Euclid  less. 
For,  mind  you,  like  my  betters,  I  had  been 
Half  scoffer,  half  believer ;  on  the  whole, 
I  thought  the  life  beyond  a  useless  dream, 
Best  left  alone,  and  shut  my  eyes  to  themes 
That  puzzled  mathematics.     But  at  last, 
When  Willie  Baird  and  I  grew  friends,  and  thoughts 
Came  to  me  from  beyond  my  father's  grave, 
I  found  't  was  pleasant  late  at  e'en  to  read 
My  Bible  —  haply,  only  just  to  pick 
Some  easy  chapter  for  my  pet  to  learn  — 
Yet  night  by  night  my  soul  was  guided  on 
Like  a  blind  man  some  angel  hand  convoys. 

I  cannot  frame  in  speech  the  thoughts  that  fill'd 
This  gray  old  brow,  the  feelings  dim  and  warm 
That  soothed  the  throbbings  of  this  weary  heart ! 
But  when  I  placed  my  hand  on  Willie's  head, 
Warm  sunshine  tingled  from  the  yellow  hair 
Thro'  trembling  fingers  to  my  blood  within ; 


172    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

And  when  I  look'd  in  Willie's  stainless  eyes 

I  saw  the  empty  ether  floating  gray 

O'er  shadowy  mountains  murmuring  low  with  winds  ; 

And  often  when,  in  his  old-fashion'd  way, 

He  question'd  me,  I  seem'd  to  hear  a  voice 

From  far  away,  that  mingled  with  the  cries 

Haunting  the  regions  where  the  round  red  sun 

Is  all  alone  with  God  among  the  saow. 

Who  made  the  stars  ?  and  if  within  his  hand 
He  caught  and  held  one,  would  his  fingers  burn  ? 
If  I,  the  gray-hair'd  dominie,  was  dug 
From  out  a  cabbage  garden  such  as  he 
Was  found  in  ?  if,  when  bigger,  he  would  wear 
Gray  homespun  hose  and  clumsy  boots  like  mine, 
And  have  a  house  to  dwell  in  all  alone  ? 
Thus  would  he  question,  seated  on  my  knee, 
While  Donald  (wheesht,  old  man !)  stretch'd  lyart  limbs 
Under  my  chair,  contented.    .Open-mouth'd 
He  hearken'd  to  the  tales  I  loved  to  tell 
About  Sir  William  Wallace  and  the  Bruce, 
And  the  sweet  lady  on  the  Scottish  throne, 
Whose  crown  was  colder  than  a  band  of  ice, 
Yet  seem'd  a  sunny  crown  whene'er  she  smiled ; 
With  many  tales  of  genii,  giants,  dwarfs, 
And  little  folk  that  play  at  jing-a-ring 
On  beds  of  harebells  'neath  the  silver  moon  ; 
Stories  and  rhymes  and  songs  of  Wonder-land  : 
How  Tammas  Ercildoune  in  Elfland  dwelt, 
How  Galloway's  mermaid  comb'd  her  golden  hair, 
How  Tammas  Thumb  stuck  in  the  spider's  web, 
And  fought  and  fought,  a  needle  for  his  sword, 
Dyeing  his  weapon  in  the  crimson  blood 
Of  the  foul  traitor  with  the  poison'd  fangs ! 


WILLIE  BAIRD.  173 

And  when  we  read  the  Holy  Book,  the  child 
Would  think  and  think  o'er  parts  he  loved  the  best ; 
The  draught  of  fish,  the  Child  that  sat  so  wise 
In  the  great  Temple,  Herod's  cruel  law 
To  slay  the  weans,  or  —  oftenest  of  all  — 
The  crucifixion  of  the  Good  Kind  Man 
Who  loved  the  weans  and  was  a  wean  himself. 
He  speir'd  of  death  ;  and  were  the  sleepers  cold 
Down  in  the  dark  wet  earth  ?  and  was  it  God 
That  put  the  grass  and  flowers  in  the  kirk-yard  ? 
What  kind  of  dwelling-place  was  heaven  above  ? 
And  was  it  full  of  flowers  ?  and  were  there  schools 
And  dominies  there  ?  and  was  it  far  away  ? 
Then,  with  a  look  that  made  your  eyes  grow  dim, 
Clasping  his  wee  white  hands  round  Donald's  neck, 
"  Do  doggies  gang  to  heaven  ? "  he  would  ask ; 
"  Would  Donald  gang  ? "  and  keek'd  in  Donald's  face 
While  Donald  blink'd  with  meditative  gaze, 
As  if  he  knew  full  brawly  what  we  said, 
And  ponder'd  o'er  it,  wiser  far  than  we. 
But  how  I  answer'd,  how  explain'd  these  themes 
I  know  not.     Oft  I  could  not  speak  at  all. 
Yet  every  question  made  me  think  of  things 
Forgotten,  puzzled  so,  and  when  I  strove 
To  reason  puzzled  me  so  much  the  more, 
That,  flinging  logic  to  the  winds,  I  went 
Straight  onward  to  the  mark  in  Willie's  way, 
Took  most  for  granted,  laid  down  premises 
Of  Faith,  imagined,  gave  my  wit  the  reins, 
And  oft  on  nights  at  e'en,  to  my  surprise, 
Felt  palpably  an  angel's  glowing  face 
Glimmering  down  upon  me,  while  mine  eyes 
Dimm'd  their  old  orbs  with  tears  that  came  unbid 
To  bear  the  glory  of  the  light  they  saw. 


174    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

So  summer  pass'd.     Yon  chestnut  at  the  door 
Scatter'd  its  burnish'd  leaves  and  made  a  sound 
Of  wind  among  its  branches.     Every  day 
Came  Willie,  seldom  going  home  again 
Till  near  the  sunset :  wet  or  dry  he  came : 
Oft  in  the  rainy  weather  carrying 
A  big  umbrella,  under  which  he  walk'd  — 
A  little  fairy  in  a  parachute, 
Blown  hither,  thither,  at  the  wind's  wild  will. 
Pleased  was  my  heart  to  see  his  pallid  cheeks 
Were  gathering  rosy-posies,  that  his  eyes 
Were  softer  and  less  sad.    Then,  with  a  gust, 
Old  Winter  tumbled  shrieking  from  the  hills, 
His  white  hair  blowing  in  the  wind. 

The  house 

Where  Willie's  mother  lives  is  scarce  a  mile 
From  yonder  hallan,  if  you  take  a  cut 
Before  you  reach  the  village,  crossing  o'er 
Green  meadows  till  you  reach  the  road  again  ; 
But  he  who  thither  goes  along  the  road 
Loses  a  reaper's  mile.     The  summer  long 
Wee  Willie  came  and  went  across  the  fields  : 
He  loved  the  smell  of  flowers  and  grass,  the  sight 
Of  cows  and  sheep,  the  changing  stalks  of  wheat, 
And  he  was  weak  and  small.     When  winter  came, 
Still  caring  not  a  straw  for  wind  or  rain 
Came  Willie  and  the  collie  ;  till  by  night 
Down  fell  the  snow,  and  fell  three  nights  and  days, 
Then  ceased.     The  ground  was  white  and  ankle-deep 
The  window  of  the  school  was  threaded  o'er 
With  flowers  of  hueless  ice  —  Frost's  unseen  hands 
Prick'd  you  from  head  to  foot  with  tinging  heat ; 
The  shouting  urchins,  yonder  on  the  green, 


WILLIE  BAIRD.  175 

Play'd  snowballs.     In  the  school  a  cheery  fire 
Was  kindled  every  day,  and  every  day 
When  Willie  came  he  had  the  warmest  seat, 
And  every  day  old  Donald,  punctual,  came 
To  join  us,  after  labor,  in  the  lowe. 

Three  days  and  nights  the  snow  had  mistily  fall'n. 
It  lay  long  miles  along  the  country-side, 
White,  awful,  silent.     In  the  keen  cold  air 
There  was  a  hush,  a  sleepless  silentness, 
And  mid  it  all,  upraising  eyes,  you  felt 
God's  breath  upon  your  face  ;  and  in  your  blood, 
Though  you  were  cold  to  touch,  was  flaming  fire, 
Such  as  within  the  bowels  of  the  earth 
Burnt  at  the  bones  of  ice,  and  wreath'd  them  round 
With  grass  ungrown. 

One  day  in  school  I  saw, 

Through  threaded  window-panes,  soft,  snowy  flakes 
Swim  with  unquiet  motion,  mistily,  slowly, 
At  intervals  ;  but  when  the  boys  were  gone, 
And  in  ran  Donald  with  a  dripping  nose, 
The  air  was  clear  and  gray  as  glass.     An  hour 
Sat  Willie,  Donald,  and  myself  around 
The  murmuring  fire,  and  then  with  tender  hand 
I  wrapt  a  comforter  round  Willie's  throat, 
Button'd  his  coat  around  him  close  and  warm, 
And  off  he  ran  with  Donald, 'happy-eyed 
And  merry,  leaving  fairy  prints  of  feet 
Behind  him  on  the  snow.     I  watch'd  them  fade 
Round  the  white  curve,  and,  turning  with  a  sigh, 
Came  in  to  sort  the  room  and  smoke  a  pipe 
Before  the  fire.     Here,  dreamingly  and  alone, 
I  sat  and  smoked,  and  in  the  fire  saw  clear 


176    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

The  norland  mountains,  white  and  cold  with  snow 
That  crumbled  silently,  and  moved,  and  changed,  — 
When  suddenly  the  air  grew  sick  and  dark, 
And  from  the  distance  came  a  hollow  sound, 
A  murmur  like  the  moan  of  far-off  seas. 

I  started  to  my  feet,  look'd  out,  and  knew 
The  winter  wind  was  whistling  from  the  clouds 
To  lash  the  snow-clothed  plain,  and  to  myself 
I  prophesied  a  storm  before  the  night. 
Then  with  an  icy  pain,  an  eldritch  gleam, 
I  thought  of  Willie  ;  but  I  cheer'd  my  heart, 
"  He  's  home,  and  with  his  mother,  long  ere  this  ! " 
While  thus  I  stood  the  hollow  murmur  grew 
Deeper,  the  wold  grew  darker,  and  the  snow 
Rush'd  downward,  whirling  in  a  shadowy  mist. 
I  walk'd  to  yonder  door  and  open'd  it. 
Whirr !  the  wind  swung  it  from  me  with  a  clang, 
And  in  upon  me  with  an  iron-like  crash 
Swoop'd  in  the  drift.    With  pinch'd  sharp  face  I  gazed 
Out  on  the  storm  !     Dark,  dark  was  all !     A  mist, 
A  blinding,  whirling  mist,  of" chilly  snow, 
The  falling  and  the  driven  ;  for  the  wind 
Swept  round  and  round  in  clouds  upon  the  earth, 
And  birm'd  the  deathly  drift  aloft  with  moans, 
Till  all  was  swooning  darkness.     Far  above 
A  voice  was  shrieking,  like  a  human  cry. 

I  closed  the  door,  and  turn'd  me  to  the  fire, 
With  something  on  my  heart  —  a  load  —  a  sense 
Of  an  impending  pain.     Down  the  broad  lum 
Came  melting  flakes  that  hiss'd  upon  the  coal ; 
Under  my  eyelids  blew  the  blinding  smoke, 
And  for  a  time  I  sat  like  one  bewitch'd, 


WILLIE  BAIRD.  177 

Still  as  a  stone.     The  lonely  room  grew  dark, 

The  flickering  fire  threw  phantoms  of  the  snow 

Along  the  floor  and  on  the  walls  around ; 

The  melancholy  ticking  of  the  clock 

Was  like  the  beating  of  my  heart.     But,  hush ! 

Above  the  moaning  of  the  wind  I  heard 

A  sudden  scraping  at  the  door ;  my  heart 

Stood  still  and  listen'd ;  and  with  that  there  rose 

An  awsome  howl,  shrill  as  a  dying  screech, 

And  scrape-scrape-scrape,  the  sound  beyond  the  door ! 

I  could  not  think  —  I  could  not  breathe  —  a  dark, 

Awful  foreboding  gript  me  like  a  hand, 

As  opening  the  door  I  gazed  straight  out, 

Saw  nothing,  till  I  felt  against  my  knees 

Something  that  moved  and  heard  a  moaning  sound  — 

Then,  panting,  moaning,  o'er  the  threshold  leapt 

Donald  the  dog,  alone,  and  white  with  snow. 


Down,  Donald  !  down,  old  man  !     Sir,  look  at  him ! 
I  swear  he  knows  the  meaning  of  my  words, 
And  tho'  he  cannot  speak,  his  heart  is  full ! 
See  now !  see  now  !  he  puts  his  cold  black  nose 
Into  my  palm  and  whines  !  he  knows,  he  knows ! 
Would  speak,  and  cannot,  but  he  minds  that  night ! 

The  terror  of  my  heart  seem'd  choking  me : 
Dumbly  I  stared  and  wildly  at  the  dog, 
Who  gazed  into  my  face  and  whined  and  moan'd, 
Leap'd  at  the  door,  then  touched  me  with  his  paws, 
And  lastly,  gript  my  coat  between  his  teeth, 
And    pull'd    and    pull'd  —  whiles    growling,    whining 

whiles  — 
Till  fairly  madden'd,  in  bewilder'd  fear, 


178    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

I  let  him  drag  me  through  the  banging  door 
Out  to  the  whirling  storm.     Bareheaded,  wild, 
The  wind  and  snow-drift  beating  on  my  face 
Blowing  me  hither,  thither,  with  the  dog, 
I  dash'd  along  the  road.     What  follow'd  seem'd 
An  eerie,  eerie  dream!  —  a  world  of  snow, 
A  sky  of  wind,  a  whirling  howling  mist 
Which  swam  around  with  hundred  sickly  eyes  ; 
And  Donald  dragging,  dragging,  beaten,  bruised, 
Leading  me  on  to  something  that  I  fear'd  — 
An  awful  something,  and  I  knew  not  what ! 
On,  on,  and  farther  on,  and  still  the  snow 
Whirling,  the  tempest  moaning  !     Then  I  mind 
Of  groping,  groping  in  the  shadowy  light, 
And  Donald  by  me  burrowing  with  his  nose 
And  whining.     Next  a  darkness,  blank  and  deep ! 
But  then  I  mind  of  tearing  thro'  the  storm, 
Stumbling  and  tripping,  blind  and  deaf  and  dumb, 
And  holding  to  my  heart  an  icy  load 
I  clutch'd  with  freezing  fingers.     Far  away  — 
It  seem'd  long  miles  on  miles  away  —  I  saw 
A  yellow  light  —  unto  that  light  I  tore  — 
And  last,  remember  opening  a  door 
And  falling,  dazzled  by  a  blinding  gleam 
Of  human  faces  and  a  flaming  fire, 
And  with  a  crash  of  voices  in  my  ears 
Fading  away  into  a  world  of  snow. 

When  I  awaken'd  to  myself,  I  lay 
In  my  own  bed  at  home.     I  started  up 
As  from  an  evil  dream  and  look'd  around, 
And  to  my  side  came  one,  a  neighbor's  wife, 
Mother  to  two  young  lads  I  taught  in  school. 
With  hollow,  hollow  voice  I  question'd  her, 


WILLIE  BAIRD.  179 

And  soon  knew  all  :  how  a  long  night  had  pass'd 

Since,  with  a  lifeless  laddie  in  my  arms, 

I  stumbled  horror-stricken,  swooning,  wild 

Into  a  ploughman's  cottage :  at  my  side, 

My  coat  between  his  teeth,  a  dog ;  and  how 

Senseless  and  cold  I  fell.     Thence,  when  the  storm 

Had  pass'd  away,  they  bore  me  to  my  home. 

I  listen'd  dumbly,  catching  at  the  sense  ; 

But  when  the  woman  mention'd  Willie's  name, 

And  I  was  fear'd  to  phrase  the  thought  that  rose, 

She  saw  the  question  in  my  tearless  eyes 

And  told  me  —  he  was  dead. 

'T  would  weary  you 

To  tell  the  thoughts,  the  fancies,  and  the  dreams 
That  weigh'd  upon  me,  ere  I  rose  in  bed, 
But  little  harm'd,  and  sent  the  wife  away, 
Rose,  slowly  drest,  took  up  my  staff  and  went 
To  Willie's  mother's  cottage.     As  I  walk'd 
Though  all  the  air  was  calm  and  cold  and  still, 
The  blowing  wind  and  dazzled  snow  were  yet 
Around  about.     I  was  bewilder'd  like  ! 
Ere  I  had  time  to  think  I  found  myself 
Beside  a  truckle  bed,  and  at  my  side 
A  weeping  woman.     And  I  clench'd  my  hands, 
And  look'd  on  Willie,  who  had  gone  to  sleep. 

In  death-gown  white  lay  Willie  fast  asleep, 
His  blue  eyes  closed,  his  tiny  fingers  clench'd, 
His  lips  apart  a  wee  as  if  he  breathed, 
His  yellow  hair  kaim'd  back,  and  on  his  face 
A  smile  —  yet  not  a  smile  —  a  dim  pale  light 
Such  as  the  Snow  keeps  in  its  own  soft  wings. 
Ay,  he  had  gone  to  sleep,  and  he  was  sound ! 


i8o    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

And  by  the  bed  lay  Donald  watching  still, 

And  when  I  look'd  he  whined,  but  did  not  move. 

I  turn'd  in  silence,  with  my  nails  stuck  deep 
In  my  clench'd  palms  ;  but  in  my  heart  of  hearts 
I  pray'd  to  God.     In  Willie's  mother's  face 
There  was  a  cold  and  silent  bitterness  — 
I  saw  it  plain,  but  saw  it  in  a  dream, 
And  cared  not.     So  I  went  my  way,  as  grim 
As  one  who  holds  his  breath  to  slay  himself. 
What  follow'd  that  is  vague  as  was  the  rest : 
A  winter  day,  a  landscape  hush'd  in  snow, 
A  weary  wind,  a  horrid  whiteness  borne 
On  a  man's  shoulder,  shapes  in  black,  o'er  all 
The  solemn  clanging  of  an  iron  bell, 
And  lastly  me  and  Donald  standing  both 
Beside  a  tiny  mound  of  fresh-heap'd  earth, 
And  while  around  the  snow  began  to  fall 
Mistily,  softly,  thro'  the  icy  air, 
Looking  at  one  another,  dumb  and  cold. 

And  Willie  's  dead !  —  that 's  all  I  comprehend  — 
Ay,  bonnie  Willie  Baird  has  gone  before  : 
The  school,  the  tempest,  and  the  eerie  pain, 
Seem  but  a  dream,  —  and  I  am  weary  like. 
I  begg'd  old  Donald  hard  —  they  gave  him  me  — 
And  we  have  lived  together  in  this  house 
Long  years  with  no  companions.     There  's  no  need 
Of  speech  between  us.     Here  we  dumbly  bide, 
But  know  each  other's  sorrow,  —  and  we  both 
Feel  weary.     When  the  nights  are  long  and  cold, 
And  snow  is  falling  as  it  falleth  now, 
And  wintry  winds  are  moaning,  here  I  dream 
Of  Willie  and  the  unfamiliar  life 


LORD  RONALD'S    WIFE.  181 

I  left  behind  me  on  the  norland  hills  ! 
"  Do  doggies  gang  to  heaven  ? "  Willie  ask'd  ; 
And  ah  !  what  Solomon  of  modern  days 
Can  answer  that  ?     Yet  here  at  nights  I  sit, 
Reading  the  Book,  with  Donald  at  my  side  ; 
And  stooping,  with  the  Book  upon  my  knee, 
I  sometimes  gaze  in  Donald's  patient  eyes  — 
So  sad,  so  human,  though  he  cannot  speak  — 
And  think  he  knows  that  Willie  is  at  peace, 
Far  far  away  beyond  the  norland  hills, 
Beyond  the  silence  of  the  untrodden  snow. 


LORD    RONALD'S    WIFE. 


T    AST  night  I  toss'd  upon  my  bed, 
•* — '  Because  I  knew  that  she  was  dead  : 
The  curtains  were  white,  the  pane  was  blue, 

The  moon  peep'd  through, 

And  its  eye  was  red  — 
"  I  would  that  my  love  were  awake ! "  I  said. 

ii. 
Then  I  rose  and  the  silver  censer  lit, 

And  over  the  rushes  lightly  stept, 
Crept  to  the  door  and  open'd  it, 

And  enter'd  the  room  where  my  lady  slept ; 
And  the  censer  threw  a  glamour  gray 
Over  the  bed  on  which  she  la-y, 
And  sparkled  on  her  golden  hair, 


1 82    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

Smiled  on  her  lip  and  melted  there, 

And  I  shudder'd  because  she  look'd  so  fair  ;  — 

For  the  curtains  were  white,  and  the  pane  was  blue, 

And  the  moon  look'd  through, 

And  its  eye  was  red : 
"  I  will  hold  her  hand,  and  think,"  I  said. 

in. 
And  at  first  I  could  not  think  at  all, 

Because  her  hand  was  so  thin  and  cold ; 
The  gray  light  flicker 'd  along  the  wall, 

And  I  seem'd  to  be  growing  old  ; 
I  look'd  in  her  face  and  could  not  weep, 

I  hated  the  sound  of  mine  own  deep  breath, 
Lest  it  should  startle  her  from  the  sleep 

That  seem'd  too  sweet  and  mild  for  death. 
I  heard  the  far-off  clock  intone 

So  slowly,  so  slowly  — 
Afar  across  the  courts  of  stone, 
The  black  hound  shook  his  chain  with  a  moan, 

As  the  village  clock  chimed  slowly,  slowly, 

slowly. 
I  pray'd  that  she  might  rise  in  bed, 

And  smile  and  say  one  little  word, 
"  I  long  to  see  her  eyes  !  "  I  said  .  .  . 

I  should  have  shriek'd  if  she  had  stirr'd. 

IV. 

I  never  sinn'd  against  thee,  Sweet ! 

And  yet  last  night,  when  none  could  see  .  . 
I  know  not  .  .  but  from  head  to  feet, 

I  seem'd  one  scar  of  infamy  : 
Perhaps  because  the  fingers  light 
I  held  had  grown  so  worn  and  white, 


LORD   RONALD'S   WIFE.  183 

Perhaps  because  you  look'd  so  fair, 

With  the  thin  gray  light  on  your  golden  hair. 

v. 
You  were  warm,  and  I  was  cold, 

Yet  you  loved  me,  little  one,  I  knew  — 
I  could  not  trifle  —  I  was  old  — 

I  was  wiser,  carefuller,  than  you  ; 
I  liked  my  horse,  I  liked  my  hound, 
I  liked  to  hear  the  trumpet  sound, 
Over  my  wine  I  liked  to  chat, 

But  soberly,  for  I  had  mind : 
You  wanted  that,  and  only  that, 

You  were  as  light  as  is  the  wind. 
At  times,  I  know,  it  fretted  me  — . 

I  chid  thee  mildly  now  and  then  — 
No  fault  of  mine  —  no  blame  to  thee  — 

Women  are  women,  men  are  men. 
At  first  you  smiled  to  see  me  frown, 

And  laughing  leapt  upon  my  knee, 
And  kiss'd  the  chiding  shadow  down, 

And  smooth'd  my  great  beard  merrily  ; 
But  then  a  change  came  o'er  you,  Sweet ! 

You  walk'd  about  with  pensive  head  ; 

You  tried  to  read,  and  as  you  read 
Patted  your  small  impatient  feet :  — 

"  She  is  wiser  now  !  "  I  smiling  said  .  . 

And  ere  I  doubted  —  you  were  dead. 

VI. 

All  this  came  back  upon  my  brain 
While  I  sat  alone  at  your  white  bedside, 

And  I  remember'd  in  my  pain 

Those  words  you  spoke  before  you  died  — 


iS4    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

For  around  my  neck  your  arms  you  flung, 

And  smiled  so  sweet  though  death  was  near  — 
"  I  was  so  foolish  and  so  young ! 

And  yet  I  loved  thee  !  —  kiss  me,  dear ! " 
I  put  aside  your  golden  hair, 

And  kiss'd  you,  and  you  went  to  sleep ; 
And  when  I  saw  that  death  was  there, 

My  grief  was  cold,  I  could  not  weep  ; 
And  late  last  night,  when  you  were  dead, 
I  did  not  weep  beside  your  bed, 
For  the  curtains  were  white,  and  the  pane  was  blue, 
And  the  moon  look'd  through, 
And  its  eye  was  red  — 
"  How  coldly  she  lies  !  "  I  said. 

VII. 

Then  loud,  so  loud,  before  I  knew, 

The  gray  and  black  cock  scream'd  and  crew, 

And  I  heard  the  far-off  bells  intone 

So  slowly,  so  slowly, 
The  black  hound  bark'd,  and  I  rose  with  a  groan, 

As  the  village  bells  chimed  slowly,  slowly, 

slowly. 
I  dropp'd  the  hand  so  cold  and  thin, 

I  gazed,  and  your  face  seem'd  still  and  wise, 
And  I  saw  the  damp  dull  dawn  stare  in 

Like  a  dim  drown'd  face  with  oozy  eyes ; 
And  I  open'd  the  lattice  quietly, 
And  the  cold  wet  air  came  in  on  me, 
And  I  pluck'd  two  roses  with  fingers  chill 
From  the  roses  that  grew  at  your  window-sill, 
I  pluck'd  two  roses,  a  white  and  a  red, 
Stole  again  to  the  side  of  your  bed, 
Raised  the  edge  of  your  winding  fold. 


LORD  RONALDS   WIFE. 

Dropp'd  the  roses  upon  your  breast, 
Cover'd  them  up  in  the  balmy  cold, 

That  none  might  know  —  and  there  they  rest ! 
And  out  at  the  castle-gate  I  crept 
Into  the  woods,  and  then  .  .  I  wept ! 
But  to-day  they  carried  you  from  here, 

And  I  follow'd  your  coffin  with  tearless  cheek  — 
They  knew  not  about  the  roses,  dear !  — 

I  would  not  have  them  think  me  weak. 

VIII. 

And  I  am  weary  on  my  bed 
Because  I  know  you  are  cold  and  dead  ; 
And  I  see  you  lie  in  darkness,  Sweet ! 
With  the  roses  under  your  winding-sheet ; 
The  days  and  nights  are  dreary  and  cold, 
And  I  am  foolish,  and  weak,  and  old. 


1 86    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 


POET    ANDREW. 


O  Loom,  that  loud  art  murmuring 
What  doth  he  hear  thee  say  or  sing? 
Thou  hummest  o'er  the  dead  one's  songs, 

He  cannot  choose  but  hark, 
His  heart  with  tearful  rapture  throngs, 

But  all  his  face  grows  dark. 

O  cottage  Fire,  that  burnest  bright, 
What  pictures  sees  he  in  thy  light  ? 
A  city's  smoke,  a  white,  white  face, 

Phantoms  that  fade  and  die, 
And  last,  the  lonely  burial-place 

On  the  windy  hill  hard  by. 

IS  near  a  year  since  Andrew  went  to  sleep  — 
A  winter  and  a  summer.     Yonder  bed 
Is  where  the  boy  was  born,  and  where  he  died, 
And  yonder  o'er  the  lowland  is  his  grave : 
The  nook  of  grass  and  gowans  where  in  thought 
I  found  you  standing  at  the  set  o'  sun  .  . 
The  Lord  content  us  —  't  is  a  weary  world. 

These  five  -  and  -  twenty  years    I  've   wrought   and 

wrought 

In  this  same  dwelling  ;  — hearken  !  you  can  hear 
The  looms  that  whuzzle-whazzle  ben  the  house, 
Where  Jean  and  Mysie,  lassies  in  their  teens, 
And  Jamie,  and  a  neighbor's  son  beside, 
Work  late  and  early.     Andrew  who  is  dead 
Was  our  first-born  ;  and  when  he  crying  came, 
With  beaded  een  and  pale  Ald-farrant  face, 


POET  ANDREW.  187 

Out  of  the  darkness,  Mysie  and  myseP 

Were  young  and  heartsome  ;  and  his  smile,  be  sure, 

Made  daily  toil  the  sweeter.     Hey,  his  kiss 

Put  honey  in  the  very  porridge-pot ! 

His  smile  strung  threads  of  sunshine  on  the  loom ! 

And  when  he  hung  around  his  mother's  neck, 

He  deck'd  her  out  in  jewels  and  in  gold 

That  even  ladies  envied !  .  .  Weel !  .  .  in  time 

Came  other  children,  newer  gems  and  gold, 

And  Andrew  quitted  Mysie's  breast  for  mine. 

So  years  roll'd  on,  like  bobbins  on  a  loom  ; 

And  Mysie  and  mysel'  had  work  to  do, 

And  Andrew  took  his  turn  among  the  rest, 

No  sweeter,  dearer ;  till,  one  Sabbath  day, 

When  Andrew  was  a  curly-pated  tot 

Of  sunny  summers  six,  I  had  a  crack 

With  Mister  Mucklewraith  the  Minister, 

Who  put  his  kindly  hand  on  Andrew's  head, 

Call'd  him  a  clever  wean,  a  bonnie  wean, 

Clever  at  learning,  while  the  mannikin 

Blush'd  red  as  any  rose,  and  peeping  up 

Went  twinkle-twinkle  with  his  round  black  een  ; 

And  then,  while  Andrew  laugh'd  and  ran  awa', 

The  Minister  went  deeper  in  his  praise, 

And  prophesied  he  would  become  in  time 

A  man  of  mark.     This  set  me,  thinking,  sir, 

And  watching,  —  and  the  mannock  puzzled  me. 

Would  sit  for  hours  upon  a  stool  and  draw 
Uroll  faces  on  the  slate,  while  other  lads 
Were  shouting  at  their  play ;  dumbly  would  lie 
Beside  the  Lintock,  sailing,  piloting, 
Navies  of  docken-leaves  a  summer  day  ; 
Had  learn'd  the  hymns  of  Doctor  Watts  by  heart, 


188    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

And  as  for  old  Scots  songs,  could  lilt  them  a'  — 

From  Yarrow  Braes  to  Bonnie  Bessie  Lee  — 

And  where  he  learn'd  them,  only  Heaven  knew ; 

And  oft,  altho'  he  feared  to  sleep  his  lane, 

Would  cowrie  at  the  threshold  in  a  storm 

To  watch  the  lightning,  —  as  a  birdie  sits, 

With  fluttering  fearsome  heart  and  dripping  wings. 

Among  the  branches.     Once,  I  mind  it  weel, 

In  came  he,  running,  with  a  bloody  nose, 

Part  tears,  part  pleasure,  to  his  fluttering  heart 

Holding  a  callow  mavis  golden-bill'd, 

The  thin  white  film  of  death  across  its  een, 

And  told  us,  sobbing,  how  a  neighbor's  son 

Harried  the  birdie  's  nest,  and  how  by  chance 

He  came  upon  the  thief  beside  the  burn 

Throwing  the  birdies  in  to  see  them  swim, 

And  how  he  fought  him,  till  he  yielded  up 

This  one,  the  one  remaining  of  the  nest ;  — 

And  "  O  the  birdie  's  dying  !  "  sobb'd  he  sore, 

"  The  bonnie  birdie  's  dying  !  "  —  till  it  died  ; 

And  Andrew  dug  a  grave  behind  the  house, 

Buried  his  dead,  and  cover'd  it  with  earth, 

And  cut,  to  mark  the  grave,  a  grassy  turf 

Where  blew  a  bunch  of  gowans.     After  that, 

I  thought  and  thought,  and  thick  as  bees  the  thoughts 

Buzz'd  to  the  whuzzle-whazzling  of  the  loom  — 

I  could  make  naething  of  the  mannikin ! 

But  by  and  by,  when  Hope  was  making  hay, 

And  web-work  rose,  I  settled  it  and  said 

To  the  good  wife,  "  'T  is  plain  that  yonder  lad 

Will  never  take  to  weaving  —  and  at  school 

They  say  he  beats  the  rest  at  all  his  tasks 

Save  figures  only  :  I  have  settled  it : 

Andrew  shall  be  a  minister  —  a  pride 


POET  ANDREW.  189 

And  comfort  to  us,  Mysie,  in  our  age  : 

He  shall  to  college  in  a  year  or  twa 

(If  fortune  smiles  as  now)  at  Edinglass." 

You  guess  the  wife  open'd  her  een,  cried  "  Foosh  !  " 

And  call'd  the  plan  a  silly  senseless  dream, 

A  hopeless,  useless  castle  in  the  air ; 

But  ere  the  night  was  out,  I  talk'd  her  o'er, 

And  here  she  sat,  her  hands  upon  her  knees, 

Glow'ring  and  heark'ning,  as  I  conjured  up, 

Amid  the  fog  and  reek  of  Edinglass 

Life's  peaceful  gloaming  and  a  godly  fame. 

So  it  was  broach'd,  and  after  many  cracks 

With  Mister  Mucklewraith,  we  plann'd  it  a', 

And  day  by  day  we  laid  a  penny  by 

To  give  the  lad  when  he  should  quit  the  bield. 

And  years  wore  on  ;  and  year  on  year  was  cheer'd 
By  thoughts  of  Andrew,  drest  in  decent  black. 
Throned  in  a  Pulpit,  preaching  out  the  Word, 
A  house  his  own,  and  all  the  country-side 
To  touch  their  bonnets  to  him.     Weel,  the  lad 
Grew  up  among  us,  and  at  seventeen 
His  hands  were  genty  white,  and  he  was  tall, 
And  slim,  and  narrow-shoulder'd :  pale  of  face, 
Silent,  and  bashful.     Then  we  first  began 
To  feel  how  muckle  more  he  knew  than  we, 
To  eye  his  knowledge  in  a  kind  of  fear, 
As  folk  might  look  upon  a  crouching  beast, 
Bonnie,  but  like  enough  to  rise  and  bite. 
Up  came  the  cloud  between  us  silly  folk 
And  the  young  lad  that  sat  among  his  Books 
Amid  the  silence  of  the  night ;  and  oft 
It  pain'd  us  sore  to  fancy  he  would  learn 
Enough  to  make  him  look  with  shame  and  scorn 


igo    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

On  this  old  dwelling.     'T  was  his  manner,  sir  ! 

He  seldom  lookt  his  father  in  the  face, 

And  when  he  walkt  about  the  dwelling,  seem'd 

Like  one  superior ;  dumbly  he  would  steal 

To  the  burnside,  or  into  Lintlin  Woods, 

With  some  new-farrant  book,  —  and  when  I  peep'd, 

Behold  a  book  of  jingling-jangling  rhyme, 

Fine-written  nothings  on  a  printed  page  ; 

And,  press'd  between  the  leaves,  a  flower  perchance, 

Anemone  or  blue  Forget-me-not, 

Pluckt  in  the  grassy  loanin'.     Then  I  peep'd 

Into  his  drawer,  among  his  papers  there, 

And  found  —  you  guess  ?  —  a  heap  of  idle  rhymes, 

Big-sounding,  like  the  worthless  printed  book : 

Some  in  old  copies  scribbled,  some  on  scraps 

Of  writing  paper,  others  finely  writ 

With  spirls  and  flourishes  on  big  white  sheets. 

I    clench'd  my  teeth,   and   groan'd.     The    beauteous 

dream 

Of  the  good  Preacher  in  his  braw  black  dress, 
With  house  and  income  snug,  began  to  fade 
Before  the  picture  of  a  drunken  loon 
Bawling  out  songs  beneath  the  moon  and  stars,  — 
Of  poet  Willie  Clay,  who  wrote  a  book 
About  King  Robert  Bruce,  and  aye  got  fu', 
And  scatter'd  stars  in  verse,  and  aye  got  fu', 
Wept  the  world's  sins,  and  then  got  fu'  again,  — 
Of  Ferguson,  the  feckless  limb  o'  law,  — 
And  Robin  Burns,  who  gauged  the  whiskey-casks 
And  brake  the  seventh  commandment.     So  at  once 
I  up  and  said  to  Andrew,  "  You  're  a  fool ! 
You  waste  your  time  in  silly  senseless  verse, 
Lame  as  your  own  conceit :  take  heed  !  take  heed  ! 
Or,  like  your  betters,  come  to  grief  erelong  !  " 


POET  ANDREW.  191 

But  Andrew  flusht  and  never  spake  a  word, 

Yet  eyed  me  sidelong  with  his  beaded  een, 

And  turn'd  awa',  and,  as  he  turn'd,  his  look  — 

Half  scorn,  half  sorrow  —  stang  me.     After  that, 

I  felt  he  never  heeded  word  of  ours, 

And  tho'  we  tried  to  teach  him  common  sense 

He  idled  as  he  pleased ;  and  many  a  year, 

After  I  spake  him  first,  that  look  of  his 

Came  dark  between  us,  and  I  held  my  tongue, 

And  felt  he  scorn'd  me  for  the  poetry's  sake. 

This  coldness  grew  and  grew,  until  at  last 

We  sat  whole  nights  before  the  fire  and  spoke 

No  word  to  one  another.     One  fine  day, 

Says  Mister  Muckle wraith  to  me,  says  he, 

"  So  !  you  've  a  Poet  in  your  house  !  "  and  smiled  ; 

"  A  Poet  ?     God  forbid  !  "  I  cried  ;  and  then 

It  all  came  out :  how  Andrew  slyly  sent 

Verse  to  the  paper ;  how  they  printed  it 

In  Poets'  Corner  ;  how  the  printed  verse 

Had  ca't  a  girdle  in  the  callant's  head  ; 

How  Mistress  Mucklewraith  they  thought  half  daft 

Had  cut  the  verses  out  and  pasted  them 

In  albums,  and  had  praised  them  to  her  friends. 

I  said  but  little  ;  for  my  schemes  and  dreams 

Were  tumbling  down  like  castles  in  the  air, 

And  all  my  heart  seem'd  hardening  to  stone. 

But  after  that,  in  secret  stealth,  I  bought 

The  papers,  hunted  out  the  printed  verse, 

And  read  it  like  a  thief;  thought  some  were  good, 

And  others  foolish  havers,  and  in  most 

Saw  naething,  neither  common  sense  nor  sound — 

Words  pottle-bellied,  meaningless,  and  strange, 

That  strutted  up  and  down  the  printed  page, 

Like  Bailies  made  to  bluster  and  look  big. 


192    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

'T  was  useless  grumbling.     All  my  silent  looks 
Were  lost,  all  Mysie's  flyting  fell  on  ears 
Choke-full  of  other  counsel ;  but  we  talk'd 
In  bed  o'  nights,  and  Mysie  wept,  and  I 
Felt  stubborn,  wrothful,  wrong'd.     It  was  to  be  ! 
But  mind  you,  though  we  mourn'd,  we  ne'er  forsook 
The  college  scheme.     Our  sorrow,  as  we  saw 
Our  Andrew  growing  cold  to  homely  ways, 
And  scornful  of  the  bield,  but  strengthen'd  more 
Our  wholesome  wish  to  educate  the  lad, 
And  do  our  duty  by  him,  and  help  him  on 
With  our  rough  hands  —  the  Lord  would  do  the  rest, 
The  Lord  would  mend  or  mar  him.     So  at  last, 
New-clad  from  top  to  toe  in  homespun  cloth, 
With  books  and  linen  in  a  muckle  trunk, 
He  went  his  way  to  college  ;  and  we  sat, 
Mysie  and  me,  in  weary  darkness  here  ; 
For  tho'  the  younger  bairns  were  still  about, 
It  seem'd  our  hearts  had  gone  to  Edinglass 
With  Andrew,  and  were  choking  in  the  reek   . 
Of  Edinglass  town. 

It  was  a  grewsome  fight,     . 
Both  for  oursel's  at  home,  and  for  the  boy, 
That  student  life  at  college.     Hard  it  was 
To  scrape  the  fees  together,  but  beside, 
The  lad  was  young  and  needed  meat  and  drink. 
We  sent  him  meal  and  bannocks  by  the  train, 
And  country  cheeses  ;  and  with  this  and  that, 
Though  sorely  push'd,  he  throve,  though  now  and  then 
With  empty  wame  :  spinning  the  siller  out 
By  teaching  grammar  in  a  school  at  night. 
Whiles  he  came  home  :  weary  old-farrant  face 
Pale  from  the  midnight  candle  ;  bringing  home 


POET  ANDREW.  193 

Good  news  of  college.     Then  we  shook  awa' 

The  old  sad  load,  began  to  build  again 

Our  airy  castles,  and  were  hopeful  Time 

Would  heal  our  wounds.     But,  sir,  they  plagued  me 

still  — 

Some  of  his  ways  !     When  here,  he  spent  his  time 
In  yonder  chamber,  or  about  the  woods, 
And  by  the  waterside,  —  and  with  him  books 
Of  poetry,  as  of  old.     MyseP  could  get 
But  little  of  his  company  or  tongue  ; 
And  when  we  talkt,  atweel,  a  kind  of  frost,  — 
My  consciousness  of  silly  ignorance, 
And  worse,  my  knowledge  that  the  lad  himsel' 
Felt  sorely,  keenly,  all  my  ignorant  shame, 
Made  talk  a  torture  out  of  which  we  crept 
With  burning  faces.     Could  you  understand 
One  who  was  wild  as  if  he  found  a  mine 
Of  golden  guineas,  when  he  noticed  first 
The  soft  green  streaks  in  a  snowdrop's  inner  leaves  ? 
And  once  again,  the  moonlight  glimmering 
Thro'  watery  transparent  stalks  of  flax  ? 
A  flower 's  a  flower !  .  .  .  But  Andrew  snooved  about, 
Aye  finding  wonders,  mighty  mysteries, 
In  things  that  ilka  learless  cottar  kenn'd. 
Now,  't  was  the  falling  snow  or  murmuring  rain  ; 
Now,  't  was  the  laverock  singing  in  the  sun, 
And  dropping  slowly  to  the  callow  young  ; 
Now,  an  old  tune  he  heard  his  mother  lilt ; 
And  aye  those  trifles  made  his  pallid  face 
Flush  brighter,  and  his  een  flash  keener  far, 
Then  when  he  heard  of  yonder  storm  in  France, 
Or  a  King's  death,  or,  if  the  like  had  been, 
A  city's  downfall. 


194    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

He  was  born  with  love 

For  things  both  great  and  small ;  yet  seem'd  to  prize 
The  small  things  best.     To  me,  it  seem'd  indeed 
The  callant  cared  for  nothing  for  itseP, 
But  for  some  special  quality  it  had 
To  set  him  thinking,  thinking,  or  bestow 
A  tearful  sense  he  took  for  luxury. 
He  loved  us  in  his  silent  fashion  weel ; 
But  in  our  feckless  ignorance  we  knew 
'T  was  when  the  humor  seized  him  —  with  a  sense 
Of  some  queer  power  we  had  to  waken  up 
The  poetry  — >  ay,  and  help  him  in  his  rhyme  ! 
A  kind  of  patronizing  tenderness, 
A  pitying  pleasure  in  our  Scottish  speech 
And  homely  ways,  a  love  that  made  him  note 
"Both  ways  and  speech  with  the  same  curious  joy 
.As  fill'd  him  when  he  watch'd  the  birds  and  flowers. 

He  was  as  sore  a  puzzle  to  us  then 
As  he  had  been  before.     It  puzzled  us, 
How  a  big  lad,  down-cheek'd,  almost  a  man, 
Could  pass  his  time  in  silly  childish  joys  .  .  . 
Until  at  last,  a  hasty  letter  came 
From  Andrew,  telling  he  had  broke  awa' 
From  college,  pack'd  his  things,  and  taken  train 
To  London  city,  where  he  hoped  (he"  said) 
To  make  both  fortune  and  a  noble  fame 
Thro'  a  grand  poem,  carried  in  his  trunk  ; 
How,  after  struggling  on  with  bitter  heart, 
He  could  no  longer  bear  to  fight  his  way 
Among  the  common  scholars  ;  and  the  end 
Bade  us  be  hopeful,  trusting  God,  and  sure 
The  light  of  this  old  home  would  guide  him  still 
Amid  the  reek  of  evil. 


POET  ANDREW.  195 

Sae  it  was  ! 

We  twa  were  less  amazed  than  you  may  guess, 
Though  we  had  hoped,  and  fear'd,  and  hoped,  sae  long  ! 
But  it  was  hard  to  bear  —  hard,  hard  to  bear ! 
Our  castle  in  the  clouds  was  gone  for  good  ; 
And  as  for  Andrew  —  other  lads  had  ta'en 
The  same  mad  path,  and  learn'd  the  bitter  task 
Of  poortith,  cold,  and  tears.     She  grat.     I  sat 
In  silence,  looking  on  the  fuffing  fire, 
Where  streets  and  ghaistly  faces  came  and  went, 
And  London  city  crumbled  down  to  crush 
Our  Andrew ;  and  my  heart  was  sick  and  cold. 
Erelong,  the  news  across  the  country-side 
Speak  quickly,  like  the  crowing  of  a  cock 
From  farm  to  farm  —  the  women  talkt  it  o'er 
On  doorsteps,  o'er  the  garden  rails  ;  the  men 
Got  fu'  upon  it  at  the  public-house, 
And  whisper'd  it  among  the  fields  at  work. 
A  cry  was  quickly  raised  from  house  to  house, 
That  all  the  blame  was  mine,  and  canker'd  een 
Lookt  cold  upon  me,  as  upon  a  kind 
Of  upstart.     "  Fie  on  pride  ! "  the  whisper  said, 
The  fault  was  Andrew's  less  than  those  who  taught 
His  heart  to  look  in  scorn  on  honest  work, — 
Shame  on  them  !  —  but  the  lad,  poor  lad,  would  learn  ! 
O  sir,  the  thought  of  this  spoil'd  many  a  web 
In  yonder  —  tingling,  tingling,  in  my  ears, 
Until  I  fairly  threw  my  gloom  aside, 
Smiled  like  a  man  whose  heart  is  light  and  young, 
And  with  a  future-kenning  happy  look 
Threw  up  my  chin,  and  bade  them  wait  and  see  .  . 
But,  night  by  night,  these  een  lookt  Londonways, 
And  saw  my  laddie  wandering  all  alone 
'Mid  darkness,  fog,  and  reek,  growing  afar 


196    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  IN  VERB  URN. 

To  dark  proportions  and  gigantic  shape  — 
Just  as  the  figure  of  a  sheep-herd  looms, 
Awful  and  silent,  thro'  a  mountain  mist. 

Ye  aiblins  ken  the  rest     At  first,  there  came 
Proud  letters,  swiftly  writ,  telling  how  folk 
Now  roundly  call'd  him  "  Poet,  "  holding  out 
Bright  pictures,  which  we  smiled  at  wearily  — 
As  people  smile  at  pictures  in  a  book, 
Vntrue  but  bonnie.     Then  the  letters  ceased, 
There  came  a  silence  cold  and  still  as  frost,  — 
We  sat  and  hearken'd  to  our  beating  hearts, 
And  pray'd  as  we  had  never  pray'd  before. 
Then  lastly,  on  the  silence  broke  the  news 
That  Andrew,  far  awa',  was  sick  to  death, 
And,  weary,  weary  of  the  noisy  streets, 
With  aching  head  and  weary  hopeless  heart, 
Was  coming  home  from  mist  and  fog  and  noise 
To  grassy  lowlands  and  the  caller  air. 

'T  was  strange,  't  was  strange  !  —  but  this,  the  weary 

end 

Of  all  our  bonnie  biggins  in  the  clouds, 
Came  like  a  tearful  comfort.     Love  sprang  up 
Out  of  the  ashes  of  the  household  fire, 
Where  Hope  was  fluttering  like  the  loose  white  film ; 
And  Andrew,  our  own  boy,  seem'd  nearer  now 
To  this  old  dwelling  and  our  aching  hearts 
Than  he  had  ever  been  since  he  became 
Wise  with  book-learning.     With  an  eager  pain, 
I  met  him  at  the  train  and  brought  him  home  ; 
And  when  we  met  that  sunny  day  in  hairst, 
The  ice  that  long  had  sunder'd  us  had  thaw'd, 
We  met  in  silence,  and  our  een  were  dim. 


POET  ANDREW.  197 

Och,  I  can  see  that  look  of  his  this  night ! 

Part  pain,  part  tenderness,  —  a  weary  look 

Yearning  for  comfort  such  as  God  the  Lord 

Puts  into  parents'  een.     I  brought  him  here. 

Gently  we  set  him  here  beside  the  fire, 

And  spake  few  words,  and  hush'd  the  noisy  house  ; 

Then  eyed  his  hollow  cheeks  and  lustrous  een, 

His  clammy  hueless  brow  and  faded  hands, 

Blue  vein'd  and  white  like  lily-flowers.     The  wife 

Forgot  the  sickness  of  his  face,  and  moved 

With  light  and  happy  footstep  but  and  ben, 

As  though  she  welcomed  to  a  merry  feast 

A  happy  guest.     In  time,  out  came  the  truth  : 

Andrew  was  dying :  in  his  lungs  the  dust 

Of  cities  stole  unseen,  and  hot  as  fire 

Burnt  —  like  a  deil's  red  een  that  gazed  at  Death. 

Too  late  for  doctor's  skill,  tho'  doctor's  skill 

We  had  in  plenty  ;  but  the  ill  had  ta'en 

Too  sure  a  grip.     Andrew  was  dying,  dying : 

The  beauteous  dream  had  melted  like  a  mist 

The  sunlight  feeds  on  :  a'  remaining  now 

Was  Andrew,  bare  and  barren  of  his  pride, 

Stark  of  conceit,  a  weel-beloved  child, 

Helpless  to  help  himsel',  and  dearer  thus, 

As  when  his  yaumer*  —  like  the  corn-craik's  cry 

Heard  in  a  field  of  wheat  at  dead  o'  night  — 

Brake  on  the  hearkening  darkness  of  the  bield. 

And  as  he  nearer  grew  to  God  the  Lord, 
Nearer  and  dearer  ilka  day  he  grew 
To  Mysie  and  mysel'  — our  own  to  love, 
The  world's  no  longer.     For  the  first  last  time, 
We  twa,  the  lad  and  I,  could  sit  and  crack 

*  Yaumer,  a  child's  cry. 


198    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

With  open  hearts  —  free-spoken,  at  our  ease  ; 
I  seem'd  to  know  as  muckle  then  as  he, 
Because  I  was  sae  sad. 

Thus  grief,  sae  deep 

It  flow'd  without  a  murmur,  brought  the  balm 
Which  blunts  the  edge  of  worldly  sense  and  makes 
Old  people  weans  again.     In  this  sad  time, 
We  never  troubled  at  his  childish  ways  ; 
We  seem'd  to  share  his  pleasure  when  he  sat 
List'ning  to  birds  upon  the  eaves  ;  we  felt 
Small  wonder  when  we  found  him  weeping  o'er 
His  old  torn  books  of  pencill'd  thoughts  and  verse  ; 
And  if,  outbye,  I  saw  a  bonnie  flower, 
I  pluckt  it  carefully  and  bore  it  home 
To  my  sick  boy.     To  me,  it  somehow  seem'd 
His  care  for  lovely  earthly  things  had  changed,  — 
Changed  from  the  curious  love  it  once  had  been, 
Grown  larger,  bigger,  holier,  peacefuler  ; 
And  though  he  never  lost  the  luxury 
Of  loving  beauteous  things  for  poetry's  sake, 
His  heart  was  God  the  Lord's,  and  he  was  calm. 
Death  came  to  lengthen  out  his  solemn  thoughts 
Like  shadows  to  the  sunset.     So  no  more 
We  wonder'd.     What  is  folly  in  a  lad 
Healthy  and  heartsome,  one  with  work  to  do, 
Befits  the  freedom  of  a  dying  man.  .  . 
Mother,  who  chided  loud  the  idle  lad 
Of  old,  now  sat  her  sadly  by  his  side, 
And  read  from  out  the  Bible  soft  and  low, 
Or  lilted  lowly,  keeking  in  his  face, 
The  old  Scots  songs  that  made  his  een  so  dim. 
I  went  about  my  daily  work  as  one 
Who  waits  to  hear  a  knocking  at  the  door, 


POET  ANDREW.  199 

Ere  Death  creeps  in  and  shadows  those  that  watch  ; 

And  seated  here  at  e'en  i'  the  ingleside, 

I  watch 'd  the  pictures  in  the  fire  and  smoked 

My  pipe  in  silence  ;  for  my  head  was  fu' 

Of  many  rhymes  the  lad  had  made  of  old 

(Rhymes  I  had  read  in  secret,  as  I  said), 

No  one  of  which  I  minded  till  they  came 

Unsummon'd,  buzzing-buzzing  in  my  ears 

Like  bees  among  the  leaves. 

The  end  drew  near. 

Came  Winter  moaning,  and  the  Doctor  said 
That  Andrew  couldna  live  to  see  the  Spring ; 
And  day  by  day,  while  frost  was  hard  at  work, 
The  lad  grew  weaker,  paler,  and  the  blood 
Came  redder  from  the  lung.     One  Sabbath  day  — 
The  last  of  winter,  for  the  caller  air 
Was  drawing  sweetness  from  the  barks  of  trees  — 
When  down  the  lane,  I  saw  to  my  surprise 
A  snowdrop  blooming  underneath  a  birk, 
And  gladly  pluckt  the  flower  to  carry  home 
To  Andrew.     Ere  I  reach'd  the  bield,  the  air 
Was  thick  wi'  snow,  and  ben  in  yonder  room 
I  found  him,  Mysie  seated  at  his  side, 
Drawn  to  the  window  in  the  old  arm-chair, 
Gazing  wi'  lustrous  een  and  sickly  cheek 
Out  on  the  shower,  that  waver'd  softly  down 
In  glistening  siller  glamour.     Saying  naught, 
Into  his  hand  I  put  the  year's  first  flower, 
And  turn'd  awa'  to  hide  my  face  ;  and  he  .  . 
.  .  He  smiled  .  .  and  at  the  smile,  I  knew  not  why, 
It  swam  upon  us,  in  a  frosty  pain, 
The  end  was  come  at  last,  at  last,  and  Death 
Was  creeping  ben,  his  shadow  on  our  hearts. 


2co    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

We  gazed  on  Andrew,  call'd  him  by  his  name, 
And  touch'd  him  softly  .  .  and  he  lay  awhile, 
His  een  upon  the  snow,  in  a  dark  dream, 
Yet  neither  heard  nor  saw  ;  but  suddenly, 
He  shook  awa'  the  vision  wi'  a  smile, 
Raised  lustrous  een,  still  smiling,  to  the  sky, 
Next  upon  us,  then  dropt  them  to  the  flower 
That  trembled  in  his  hand,  and  murmur'd  low, 
Like  one  that  gladly  murmurs  to  himsel', — 
"Out  of  the  Snow,  the  Snowdrop,  —  out  of  Death 
Comes  Life  "  ;  then  closed  his  eyes  and  made  a  moan, 
And  never  spake  another  word  again. 

.  .  And  you  think  weel  of  Andrew's  book  ?  You  think 
That  folk  will  love  him,  for  the  poetry's  sake, 
Many  a  year  to  come  ?     We  take  it  kind 
You  speak  so  weel  of  Andrew  !  —  As  for  me, 
I  can  make  naething  of  the  printed  book  ; 
I  am  no  scholar,  sir,  as  I  have  said, 
And  Mysie  there  can  just  read  print  a  wee. 
Ay  !  we  are  feckless,  ignorant  of  the  world  ! 
And  though  't  were  joy  to  have  our  boy  again 
And  place  him  far  above  our  lowly  house, 
We  like  to  think  of  Andrew  as  he  was 
When,  dumb  and  wee,  he  hung  his  gold  and  gems 
Round  Mysie's  neck  ;  or  —  as  he  is  this  night  — 
Lying  asleep,  his  face  to  heaven,  —  asleep, 
Near  to  our  hearts  as  when  he  was  a  bairn, 
Without  the  poetry  and  human  pride 
That  came  between  us,  to  our  grief,  langsyne. 


WHITE  LIL  Y  OF  WEARDALE-HEAD.       201 


WHITE   LILY   OF  WEARDALE-HEAD. 

A     NIGHT-PIECE. 
THE   ELVES. 

ALL  day  the  sunshine  loves  to  dwell 
Upon  the  pool  of  Weardale  Well ; 
But  when  the  sunbeams  shine  no  more 

The  Monk  stalks  down  the  moonlit  dell : 
His  robe  is  black,  his  hair  is  hoar, 

He  sits  him  down  by  Weardale  Well ; 
He  hears  the  water  moan  below, 
He  sees  a  face  as  white  as  snow, 
His  nightly  penance  there  is  done, 
And  he  shall  never  see  the  sun. 


THE   MONK. 

Hear  them,  old  Anatomy  ! 

Down  the  glade  I  see  them  flee  — 

White-robed  Elfins,  three  times  three  ! 


THE   ELVES. 

Night  by  night,  in  pale  moonlight, 
The  Monk  shall  tell  his  story  o'er, 

And  the  grinning  Gnome  with  teeth  of  white 
Hearkeneth  laughing  evermore  ; 

His  nightly  penance  thus  is  done  — 

And  he  shall  never  see  the  sun  ! 


202    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 
*  THE   GNOME. 

Ever  new  and  ever  old, 
Comrade,  be  thy  story  told, 
While  the  face  as  white  as  snow 
Sighs  upon  the  pool  below. 

THE   MONK. 

"  I  love  the  sunshine,"  said 
White  Lily  of  Weardale-head. 

And  underneath  the  greenwood  tree, 

She  wander'd  free,  she  wander'd  bold  ; 
The  merry  sun  smiled  bright  to  see, 

And  turn'd  her  yellow  hair  to  gold : 
Then  the  bee,  and  the  moth,  and  the  butterfly, 

Hunting  for  sweets  in  the  wood-bowers  fair, 
Rose  from  the  blooms  as  she  wander'd  by, 

And  play'd  in  the  light  of  her  shining  hair. 
She  sat  her  down  by  Weardale  Well, 
And  her  gleaming  ringlets  rustled  and  fell, 
Clothing  her  round  with  a  golden  glow, 
And  her  shadow  was  light  for  the  pool  below  ; 
Then  the  yellow  adder  fold  in  fold 
Writhed  from  his  lair  in  the  grass  and  roll'd 
WTith  glittering  scales  in  a  curl  o'  the  gold : 
She  stroked  his  head  with  her  finger  light, 

And  he  gazed  with  still  and  glistening  eye  ; 
And  she  laught  and  clapt  her  hands  of  white, 

And  overhead  the  sun  went  by 

Thro'  the  azure  gulfs  of  a  cloudless  sky : 
"  All  things  that  love  the  sun,  love  me, 
And  O  but  the  sun  is  sweet  to  see, 
And  I  love  to  look  on  the  sun,"  said  she. 


WHITE  LILY  OF   WEARDALE-HEAD.      203 

i 

But  the  Abbess  gray  of  Lintlin  Brae 
Hated  to  look  on  the  light  of  day  ; 
She  mumbled  prayers,  she  counted  beads, 

She  whipt  and  whipt  her  shoulders  bare, 
She  slept  on  a  bed  of  straw  and  reeds, 

And  wore  a  serk  of  horse's  hair. 
By  candlelight  she  sat  and  read, 

And  heard  a  song  from  far-away, 
She  cross'd  herself  and  raised  her  head,  — 

"  Who  sings  so  loud  ? "  said  the  Abbess  gray. 
I,  who  sat  both  early  and  late 
A  shadow  black  at  the  Abbey  gate  : 
"  Mater  sacra,  it  is  one 
Who  wanders  evermore  in  the  sun, 
A  little  maiden  of  Weardale-head, 
Whose  father  and  mother  have  long  been  dead, 
But  she  loves  to  wander  in  greenwood  bowers, 
Singing  and  plucking  the  forest  flowers." 
The  Abbess  frown'd,  half  quick,  half  dead, 
"  There  is  a  sin  !  "  the  Abbess  said. 


I  found  her  singing  a  ditty  wild, 

Her  gleaming  locks  around  her  roll'd  ; 
I  seized  her  while  she  sang  and  smiled, 

And  dragg'd  her  along  by  the  hair  of  gold  : 
The  moth  and  butterfly,  fluttering, 

Follow'd  me  on  to  Lintlin  Brae, 
The  adder  leapt  at  my  heart  to  sting, 

But  with  sandall'd  heel  I  thrust  it  away ; 
And  the  bee  dropt  down  ere  I  was  'ware 
On  the  hand  that  gript  the  yellow  hair, 
And  stang  me  deep,  and  I  curs'd  aloud, 
And  the  sun  went  in  behind  a  cloud  ! 


204  IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 
THE   ELVES. 

Nightly  be  his  penance  done  ! 
He  shall  never  see  the  sun  ! 

THE   MONK. 

The  cell  was  deep,  the  cell  was  cold, 

It  quench'd  the  light  of  her  hair  of  gold  ; 

One  little  loop  alone  was  there, 

One  little  eye-hole  letting  in 

A  slender  ray  of  light  as  thin 
As  a  tress  of  yellow  hair. 

"  O  for  the  sunshine  !  "  said 
White  Lily  of  Weardale-head  ; 
And  in  the  dark  she  lay, 

Reaching  her  fingers  small 
To  feel  the  little  ray 

That  glimmer'd  down  the  wall. 

And  while  she  linger'd  white  as  snow 
She  heard  a  fluttering  faint  and  low ; 
And  stealing  thro'  the  looplet  thin 
The  moth  and  butterfly  crept  in  — 
With  golden  shadows  as  they  flew 

They  waver'd  up  and  down  in  air, 
Then  dropping  slowly  ere  she  knew, 

Fell  on  her  eyes  and  rested  there  : 
And  O  she  slept  with  balmy  sighs, 

Dreaming  a  dream  of  golden  day, 
The  shining  insects  on  her  eyes, 

Their  shadows  on  her  cheeks,  she  lay ; 
And  while  she  smiled  on  pleasant  lands, 

On  the  happy  sky  and  wood  and  stream, 
I,  creeping  in  with  outstretch'd  hands, 

Murder'd  the  things  that  brought  the  dream. 


WHITE  LILY  OF   WEARDALE-IIEAD.      205 

She  woke  and  stretch'd  her  hands  and  smiled, 
Then  gazed  around  with  sunless  eyes, 

Her  white  face  gloom'd,  her  heart  went  wild, 
She  sank  with  tears  and  sighs. 

"  O  for  the  sunshine  !  "  said 

White  Lily  of  Weardale-head. 

And  while  she  lay  with  cries  and  tears, 
There  came  a  humming  in  her  ears  ; 
And  stealing  through  the  looplet  thin 
The  yellow  honey-bee  crept  in, 
And  hover'd  round  with  summer  sound 

Round  and  around  the  gloomy  cell ; 

Then  softly  on  her  lips  he  fell, 
And  moisten'd  them  with  honey  found 

Among  the  flowers  by  Weardale  Well ; 
And  O  she  smiled  and  sang  a  song, 

And  closed  her  'eyelids  in  the  shade, 
And  thought  she  singing  walkt  among 

The  lily-blooms  in  the  greenwood  glade. 
I  heard  the  song  and  downward  crept, 

And  enter'd  cold  and  black  as  sin, 
And  slew,  although  she  raved  and  wept, 

The  bee  that  brought  the  honey  in  : 
"  O  for  the  sunshine  !  "  said 
White  Lily  of  Weardale-head. 

And  while  she  lay  as  white  as  snow 
She  heard  a  hissing  sad  and  low  ; 
And  writhing  through  the  looplet  thin 
The  little  yellow  snake  crept  in  : 
His  golden  coils  cast  shadows  dim, 

With  glistening  eye  he  writhed  and  crept, 
And  while  she  smiled  to  welcome  him, 

Into  her  breast  he  stole,  and  slept ; 


20 6   IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

And  O  his  coils  fell  warm  and  sweet 

Upon  her  heart  and  husht  its  beat, 

And  softest  thrills  of  pleasure  deep 

Ran  through  her,  though  she  could  not  sleep, 

But  lay  with  closed  eyes  awake, 

Her  little  hand  upon  the  snake  — 

"  All  things  that  love  the  sun,  love  me, 

And  O  but  the  sun  is  sweet  to  see  ! 

And  I  long  to  look  on  the  sun,"  said  she. 

Then  down,  on  sandalPd  foot;- 1  crept, 

To  kill  the  snake  that  heal'd  the  pang, 
But  up,  with  waving  arms,  she  leapt, 

And  out  across  the  threshold  sprang, 
And  up  the  shadowy  Abbey  stairs, 
Past  the  gray  Abbess  at  her  prayers, 
Through  the  black  court  with  leap  and  run, 
Out  at  the  gate,  and  into  the  sun ! 
There  for  a  space  she  halted,  blind 

With  joy  to  feel  the  light  again, 
But  heard  my  rushing  foot  behind, 

And  sped  along  the  Abbey  lane  ; 
The  sunshine  made  her  strong  and  fleet, 

As  on  she  fled  by  field  and  fold, 
Her  shining  locks  fell  to  her  feet 

In  ring  on  ring  of  living  gold ; 
But  the  sun  went  in  behind  a  cloud, 

As  I  gript  her  by  the  shining  locks, 
I  gript  them  tight,  I  laught  aloud, 

The  echoes  rang  through  woods  and  rocks  ; 
Moaning  she  droopt,  then  up  she  sprang, 
The  adder  leapt  at  my  heart  and  stang, 
And  like  a  flash  o'  the  light  she  fell 
Into  the  depths  of  Weardale  Well. 


WHITE  LILY  OF  WEARDALE-HEAD.      207 

The  adder  stang  with  fatal  fang, 

Around  I  whirl'd  and  shriek'd  and  sprang, 

Then  fell  and  struggled,  clenching  teeth  ; 
Then  to  the  oozy  grass  I  clang, 

And  gazed  upon  the  pool  beneath  ; 
The  white  death-film  was  on  mine  eye, 
Yet  look'd  I  down  in  agony ; 
And  as  I  look'd  in  throes  of  death, 
In  shining  bubbles  rose  her  breath 
And  burst  in  little  rings  of  light, 

And  upward  came  a  moaning  sound  ; 
But  suddenly  the  sun  shone  bright, 

And  all  the  place  was  gold  around, 
And  to  the  surface,  calm  and  dead, 
Uprose  White  Lily  of  Weardale-head  ; 
Her  golden  hair  around  her  blown 
Made  gentle  radiance  of  its  own  ; 
Her  face  was  turn'd  to  the  summer  sky 

With  smile  that  seem'd  to  live  and  speak, 
The  golden  moth  and  butterfly, 

With  glowing  shadows,  on  her  cheek  ; 
And  lying  on  her  lips  apart 

The  honey-bee  with  wings  of  gold, 
And  sleeping  softly  on  her  heart 

The  yellow  adder  fold  in  fold ; 
And  as  I  closed  mine  eyes  to  die, 
Overhead  the  sun  went  by 
Through  the  azure  gulfs  of  a  cloudless  sky ! 

THE   ELVES. 

All  day  the  sunshine  loves  to  dwell 
Upon  the  sleep  of  Weardale  Well ; 
All  day  there  is  a  gentle  sound, 
And  little  insects  pause  and  sing, 


2c8   IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  IN  VERB  URN. 

The  butterfly  and  moth  float  round, 

The  bee  drops  down  with  humming  wing, 

And  all  the  pool  lies  clear  and  cold, 

Yet  glittering  like  hair  of  gold. 

All  day  the  Monk  in  hollow  shell 
Lies  dumb  among  the  Abbey-tombs, 
While,  in  the  grass  and  honey-blooms, 

The  adder  basks  by  Weardale  Well ; 

But  the  adder  stings  his  heart  by  night : 
His  tale  is  told,  his  penance  done, 

His  eyes  are  dark,  they  long  for  light, 
Yet  they  shall  never  see  the  sun  ! 


THE   ENGLISH   HUSWIFE'S   GOSSIP. 


A  ploughman's  English  wife,  bright-eyed,  sharp-speech' d, 
Plump  as  a  pillow,  fresh  as  clothes  new-bleach'd : 
The  firelight  dancing  ruddy  on  her  cheeks, 
Irons  Tom's  Sunday  linen  as  she  speaks. 

AT  three-and-forty,  simple  as  a  child, 
Soft  as  a  sheep,  yet  curious  as  a  daw, 
Wise,  cunning,  in  a  fashion  of  his  own, 
Queer,  watchful,  strange,  a  puzzle  to  us  all :  — 
That's  John! 

My  husband's  brother  —  seven  years 
Younger  than  Tom.     When  we  were  wed  and  one, 
John  came  to  dwell  with  Tom  and  me  for  good, 
And  now  has  dwelt  beside  us  twenty  years, 


THE  ENGLISH  HUSWIFE'S  GOSSIP.       209 

But  now,  at  forty-three?/is  breaking  fast, 

Grows  weaker,  brain  and  body,  every  day. 

At  times  he  works,  and  earns  his  meat  and  drink, 

At  times  is  sick,  and  lies  and  moans  in  bed, 

Beside  the  noisy  clishmaclavering 

He  makes  when  he  is  glad.     A  natural ! 

Man-bodied,  but  in  many  things  a  child  ; 

Unfinish'd  somewhere  —  where,  the  Lord  knows  best 

Who  made  and  guards  him  ;  wiser,  craftier, 

Than  Tom,  or  any  other  man  I  know, 

In  tiny  things  few  men  perceive  at  all ; 

No  fool  at  cooking,  clever  at  his  work, 

Thoughtful  when  Tom  is  senseless  and  unkind, 

Kind  with  a  grace  that  sweetens  silentness,  — 

But  weak  where  other  working-men  are  strong, 

And  strong  where  they  are  weak.     An  angry  word 

From  one  he  loves,  —  and  off  he  creeps  in  pain  — 

Perhaps  to  ease  his  tender  heart  in  tears. 

But  easy-sadden'd,  sir,  is  easy-pleased  ! 

Give  him  the  babe  to  nurse,  he  sits  him  down, 

Smiles  like  a  woman,  and  is  glad  at  heart. 

Crazed  ?     There  's  the  question  !     Mister  Muckle- 

wraith, 

Your  friend  —  and  John's  as  well  —  will  answer  "No!" 
And  often  has  he  scolded  when  I  seem'd 
To  answer  "  Yea."     Of  late  the  weary  limbs 
Have  tried  the  weary  brain,  that  every  day 
Grows  feebler,  duller  ;  yet  the  Minister 
Still  stands  his  friend  and  helps  him  as  he  can. 
"  Tender  of  heart,"  says  Mister  Mucklewraith, 
"  Tender  of  heart,  goodwife,  is  wise  of  head : 
If  John  is  weak,  his  heart  is  to  be  blamed  j 
And  can  the  erring  heart  of  mortal  be 

«4 


no   IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

O'er  gentle  ?  "     Hey,  't  is  little  ^use  to  talk  ! 
The  Minister  is  soft  at  heart  as  he  ! 

Talk  of  the  .  .  John  !  and  home  again  so  soon  ? 
The  children  are  at  school,  the  dinner  o'er, 
Tom  still  is  busy  working  at  the  plough. 
Weary  ?  —  then  sit  you  down  and  rest  awhile. 
John  fears  all  strangers  —  is  ashamed  to  speak  — 
But  stares  and  counts  his  ringers  o'er  as  now, 
Yet  —  trust  him  !  — when  you  vanish  he  will  tell 
The  color  of  your  hair,  your  hat,  your  clothes, 
The  number  of  the  buttons  on  your  coat  — 
Eh,  John  ?  —  he  laughs  — as  sly  as  sly  can  be  ! 

Now,  run  to  Tom  —  as  quickly  as  you  can  — 
Say  he  is  wanted  by  the  gentleman 
[Tom  knows  the  name]  from  Mister  Mucklewraith's. 

Off,  like  an  arrow  from  a  bow,  you  see  ! 
That 's  nothing  !     John  would  run  until  he  dropt 
For  me,  and  need  no  thanking  but  a  smile, 
Would  work  and  work  his  ringers  to  the  bone, 
Do  aught  I  asked,  without  or  in  the  house,  — 
And  just  because  I  cheer  him  merrily 
And  speak  him  kindly.     Tom  he  little  likes, 
And  would  not  budge  a  single  step  to  serve, 
For  Tom  is  rough,  and  says  I  humor  him, 
And  mocks  him  for  his  silly  childish  ways. 
And  Tom  has  reason  to  be  wroth  at  times  ! 
But  yesterday  John  sat  him  on  a  stool, 
And  ripp'd  the  bellows  up,  to  find  from  where 
The  wind  came  :  slowly  did  it  bit  by  bit, 
As  sage  as  Solomon,  and  when  't  was  done 
Just  scratch'd  his  head,  still  puzzled,  creeping  off 


THE  ENGLISH  HUSWIFE'S  GOSSIP.       211 

To  some  still  corner  in  the  lowland,  there 

To  think  the  puzzle  out  in  place  alone. 

There  is  his  weakness  —  curiosity  ! 

Those  watchful,  prying,  curious  eyes  of  his, 

That  like  a  cat's  see  better  in  the  dark, 

Are  ne'er  at  rest ;  his  hands  and  eyes  and  ears 

Are  eager  getting  knowledge,  —  when  't  is  got 

Lord  knoweth  in  what  corner  of  his  head 

He  hides  it,  but  it  ne'er  sees  light  again  ! 

Oft  he  reminds  me  of  a  painter  lad 
Who  came  to  Inverburn  a  summer  since, 
Went  poking  everywhere  with  pallid  face, 
Thought,  painted,  wander'd  in  the  woods  alone, 
Work'd  a  long  morning  at  a  leaf  or  flower, 
And  got  the  name  of  clever.    John  and  he 
Made  friends  —  a  thing  I  never  could  make  out ; 
But,  bless  my  life  !  it  seem'd  to  me  the  lad 
Was  just  a  John  who  had  learnt  to  read,  to  write,  and 
paint ! 

He  buys  a  coat :  what  does  he  first,  but  count 
The  pockets  and  the  buttons  one  by  one  — 
A  mighty  calculation  sagely  summ'd  ; 
Our  eldest  daughter  goes  to  Edinglass, 
Brings  home  a  box  —  John  eyes  the  box  with  greed, 
And  next,  we  catch  him  in  the  lassie's  room, 
The  box  wide  open,  John  upon  the  floor, 
And  in  his  hand  a  bonnet,  eyed  and  eyed, 
Turn'd  o'er  and  o'er,  examined  bit  by  bit, 
Like  something  wondrous  as  a  tumbled  star; 
Our  youngest  has  a  gift  —  a  box  of  toys, 
A  penny  trumpet  —  not  a  wink  for  John 
Till  he  has  seen  the  whole,  or  by  and  by 


ai2   IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

He  gives  the  child  a  sixpence  for  the  toy, 

And  creeps  away  and  cuts  it  up  to  bits 

In  wonder  and  in  joy.     It  makes  me  cry 

For  fun  to  watch  his  pranks,  the  natural ! 

But  think  not,  sir,  that  he  was  ever  so :  — 

Nay  !  twenty  years  ago  but  few  could  tell 

That  he  was  simpler  than  the  rest  of  men  — 

His  step  was  firm,  he  kept  his  head  erect, 

Could  hold  his  tongue,  because  he  knew  full  well 

That  he  was  simpler-headed  than  the  rest.  — 

JVow,  when  his  wits  have  gone  so  fast  asleep, 

He  thinks  he  is  the  wisest  man  of  men  ! 

Yet,  sir,  his  heart  is  kindly  to  the  core, 

Tho'  sensitive  to  touch  as  fly-trap  flowers  : 

He  loves  them  best  that  seem  to  think  him  wise, 

Consult  him,  notice  him,  and  those  that  mock 

His  tenderness  he  never  will  forgive. 

Money  he  saves  to 'buy  the  children  gifts  — 

Clothes,  toys,  whate'er  he  fancies  like  to  please  — 

And  many  of  his  ways  so  tender  are, 

So  gentle  and  so  good,  it  fires  my  blood 

To  see  him  vex'd  and  troubled.     Just  as  a  child  ! 

He  weeps  in  silence,  if  a  little  ill ; 

A  cold,  a  headache  —  he  is  going  to  die  ; 

But  then,  beside,  he  can  be  trusted,  sir ! 

(Ye  cannot  say  the  like  of  many  men  !) 

Tell  him  a  secret,  —  torture,  death  itself, 

Would  fail  to  make  him  whisper  and  betray. 

Nay,  sit  you  down  —  and  smoke?    Ay,  smoke  your 

fill: 

Both  John  and  father  like  their  cutty-pipe  ; 
Tom  will  be  here  as  fast  as  he  can  come  ; 
And  I  can  crack  and  talk  as  well  as  work. 


THE  ENGLISH  HUSWIFE'S  GOSSIP.       213 

John,  simple  as  be  is,  has  had  his  cares : 
They  came  upon  him  in  his  younger  days 
When  he  was  tougher-headed,  and  I  think 
They  help'd  to  make  him  silly  as  he  is  : 
Time  that  has  stolen  all  his  little  wits, 
By  just  a  change  of  chances,  might  have  made 
Our  John  another  man  and  strengthen'd  him. 
The  current  gave  a  swirl,  and  caught  the  straw, 
And  John  was  doom'd  to  be  a  natural ! 
Oft  when  he  sits  and  smokes  his  pipe  and  thinks, 
Ye  know  by  his  downcast  eyes  and  quivering  lips 
His  heart  is  aching  ;  but  he  ne'er  complains 
Of  that — the  sorest  thought  he  has  to  bear. 
We  know  he  thinks  of  Jessie  Glover  then  ; 
But  let  him  be,  till  o'er  his  head  the  cloud 
Passes  and  leaves  a  meekness  and  a  hush 
Upon  the  heart  it  shadow'd.     Jessie,  sir?  — 
She  was  a  neighbor's  daughter  in  her  teens, 
A  bold  and  forward  huzzie,  tho'  her  face 
Was%  pretty  in  its  way :  a  jet-black  eye, 
Red  cheeks,  black  eyebrows,  and  a  comely  shape 
The  petticoat  and  short-gown  suited  well. 
In  here  she  came  and  stood  and  talk'd  for  hours 
[Her  tongue  was  like  a  bell  upon  a  sheep  — 
Her  very  motion  seem'd  to  make  it  jing] 
And,  ere  I  guess'd  it,  John  and  she  were  friends. 
She  pierced  the  silly  with  her  jet-black  eye, 
Humor'd  him  ever,  seem'd  to  think  him  wise, 
Was  serious,  gentle,  kindly,  to  his  face, 
And,  ere  I  guess'd,  so  flatter'd  his  conceit 
That,  tho'  his  lips  were  silent  at  her  side, 
He  grew  a  mighty  man  behind  her  back, 
Held  up  his  head  in  gladness  and  in  pride, 
And  seem'd  to  have  an  errand  in  the  world. 


zi4   IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

At  first  I  laugh'd  and  banter'd  with  the  rest  — 

"  How  's  Jessie,  John  ?  "  and  "  Name  the  happy  day '  ; 

And  "  Have  ye  spoken  to  the  minister  ?  " 

Thinking  it  just  a  joke  ;  and  when  the  lass 

Would  sit  by  John,  her  arm  about  his  neck, 

Holding  his  hand  in  hers,  and  humor  him, 

Yet  laugh  her  fill  behind  the  silly's  back, 

I  let  it  pass.     I  little  liked  her  ways  — 

I  guess'd  her  heart  was  tough  as  cobbler's  wax  — 

Yet  what  of  that  ?  —  'T  was  but  a  piece  of  fun. 

A  piece  of  fun  !  —  'T  was  serious  work  to  John  ! 
The  hussy  lured  him  with  her  wicked  eyes, 
And  danced  about  him,  ever  on  the  watch, 
Like  pussie  yonder  playing  with  a  mouse. 
I  saw  but  little  of  them,  never  dream'd 
They  met  unknown  to  me  ;  but  by  and  by 
The  country-side  was  ringing  with  the  talk 
That  John  and  she  went  walking  thro'  the  fields, 
Sat  underneath  the  slanted  harvest  sheaves 
Watching  the  motion  of  the  honeyed  moon, 
Met  late  and  early  —  courted  night  and  day  — 
John  earnest  as  you  please,  and  Jess  for  fun. 
I  held  my  peace  awhile,  and  used  my  eyes  ! 
New  bows  and  ribbons  upon  Jessie's  back, 
Cheap  brooches,  and  a  bonnet  once  or  twice, 
Proved  that  the  piece  of  fun  paid  Jessie  well, 
And  showed  why  John,  no  longer  spent  his  pence 
In  presents  to  the  boys.     I  saw  it  all, 
But,  pitying  John,  afraid  to  give  him  pain, 
I  spake  to  Jessie,  sharply  bade  her  heed, 
Cried  "  shame  "  upon  her,  for  her  heartlessness. 
The  hussy  laugh'd  and  coolly  went  her  way, 
And  after  that  came  hither  nevermore 


THE  ENGLISH  HUSWIFE'S  GOSSIP.       215 

To  talk  and  clatter.     But  the  cruel  sport 

Went  on,  I  found.     One  day,  to  my  surprise, 

Up  came  a  wagon  to  the  cottage  door, 

John  walking  by  the  side,  and  while  I  stared 

He  quickly  carried  to  the  kitchen  here, 

A  table,  chairs,  a  wooden  stool,  a  broom, 

Two  monster  saucepans,  and  a  washing  tub, 

And  last,  a  roll  of  blankets  and  of  sheets. 

The  wagon  went  away,  here  linger'd  John 

Among  the  things,  and  blushing  red  says  he, 

{'  I  bought  them  all  at  Farmer  Simpson's  sale  — 

Ye  '11  keep  them  till  I  need  them  for  myself !  " 

And  then  walk'd  out.     Long  time  I  stood  and  stared, 

Puzzled,  amazed  ;  but  by  and  by  I  saw 

The  meaning  of  it  all.     Alas  for  John  ! 

The  droll  beginning  of  a  stock  in  trade 

For  marriage  stood  before  me.     Jessie's  eyes 

And  lying  tongue  had  made  him  fairly  crazed, 

And  ta'en  the  little  wits  he  had  to  spare. 

With  flushing  face,  set  teeth,  away  I  ran 

To  Jessie  —  found  her  washing  at  a  tub, 

Half  guilt,  half  soap-suds  —  and  I  told  her  all ; 

And  for  a  while  she  could  not  speak  a  word 

For  laughter.    "  Shame  upon  ye,  shame,  shame,  shame  ! 

Thus  to  misuse  the  lad  who  loves  ye  so  ! 

Mind,  Jessie  Glover,  folks  with  scanty  brains 

Have  hearts  that  can  be  broken  !  "     Still  she  laugh'd ! 

While  tears  of  mirth  ran  down  her  crimson  cheeks 

And  mingled  with  the  frothy  suds  of  soap  ; 

But  trust  me,  sir,  I  went  not  home  again 

Till  Jessie's  parents  knew  her  wickedness  ; 

And  last,  I  wrung  a  promise  from  her  lips 

From  that  day  forth  to  trouble  John  no  more, 

To  let  him  know  her  fondness  was  a  joke, 


ii 6    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

Pass  by  him  in  the  street  without  a  word, 
And,  though  perhaps  his  gentle  heart  might  ache, 
Shake  him  as  one  would  shake  a  drunken  man 
Until  his  sleepy  wits  awoke  again. 

I  watch'd  that  Jessie  Glover  kept  her  word. 

That  night,  when  John  was  seated  here  alone, 
Smoking  his  pipe,  and  dreaming  as  I  guess'd 
Of  Jessie  Glover  and  a  wedding  ring, 
I  stole  behind  him  silently  and  placed 
My  hand  upon  his  shoulder:  when  he  saw 
The  shadow  on  my  face,  he  trembled,  flush'd, 
And  knew  that  I  was  sad.     I  sank  my  voice, 
And  gently  as  I  could  I  spake  my  mind, 
Spake  like  a  mother,  told  him  he  was  wrong, 
That  Jessie  only  was  befooling  him 
And  laugh'd  his  love  to  scorn  behind  his  back, 
And  last,  to  soothe  his  pain,  I  rail'd  at  her, 
Hoping  to  make  him  angry.     Here  he  sat, 
And  let  his  pipe  go  out,  and  hung  his  head, 
And  never  answer'd  back  a  single  word. 
'Twas  hard,  'twas  hard,  to  make  him  understand  ! 
He  could  not,  would  not !     All  his  heart  was  wrapt 
In  Jessie  Glover  ;  and  at  twenty-three 
A. full-grown  notion  thrusts  its  roots  so  deep, 
'Tis  hard  indeed  to  drag  it  up  without 
Tearing  the  heart  as  well.     Without  a  word 
He  crept  away  to  bed.     Next  morn,  his  eyes 
Were  red  with  weeping  —  but  'twas  plain  to  see 
He  thought  I  wrong'd  both  Jessie  and  himself. 

That  morning  Jessie  pass'd  him  on  the  road : 
He  ran  to  speak  —  she  toss'd  her  head  and  laugh'd 
And  sneering  pass'd  him  by.     All  day  he  wrought 


THE  ENGLISH  HUSWIFE'S  GOSSIP.       217 

In  silence  at  the  plough  — ne'er  had  he  borne 
A  pang  so  quietly.     At  gloaming  hour 
Home  came  he,  weary  :  here  was  I  alone  : 
Stubborn  as  stone  he  turn'd  his  head  away, 
Sat  on  his  stool  before  the  fire  and  smoked  ; 
Then  while  he  smoked  I  saw  his  eyes  were  wet : 
"John  !  "  and  I  placed  my  hand  upon  his  arm. 
He  turn'd,  seem'd  choking,  tried  in  vain  to  speak, 
Then  fairly  hid  his  face  and  wept  aloud,  — 
But  never  wept  again. 

The  days  pass'd  on. 

I  held  my  tongue,  and  left  the  rest  to  time, 
And  warn'd  both  father  and  the  boys.     My  heart 
Was  sore  for  John !     He  was  so  dumb  and  sad, 
Never  complaining  as  he  did  of  old, 
And  toiling  late  and  early.     By  and  by, 
"Maggie, "  says  he,  as  quiet  as  a  lamb, 
"  Ye  '11  keep  the  things  I  bought  at  Simpson's  sale  — 
I  do  not  need  them  now ! "  and  tried  to  smile, 
But  could  not.     Well,  I  thank'd  him  cheerily, 
Nor  seem'd  to  see  his  heart  was  aching  so  : 
Then  after  that  the  boys  got  pence  from  John, — 
The  smaller  playthings,  and  the  bigger  clothes  : 
He  eased  his  heart  by  spending  as  of  old 
His  money  on  the  like. 

Well  may  you  cry 

Shame,  shame  on  Jessie  !     Heartless,  graceless  lass  ! 
'I  could  have  whipt  her  shoulders  with  a  staff !  — 
But  Him  above  had  sorer  tasks  in  store. 
Erelong  the  village,  like  a  peal  of  bells, 
Rang  out  the  tale  that  Jessie  was  a  thief, 
Had  gone  to  Innis  Farm  to  work  a  week, 


2i8    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  1NVERBURN. 

And  stolen  Maggie  Fleming's  watch  and  chain  — 

They  found  them  in  her  trunk,  with  scores  of  things 

From  poorer  houses.     Woe  to  Jessie  then 

If  Farmer  Fleming  had  unkindly  been, 

Nor  spared  her  for  her  sickly  father's  sake  ! 

The  punishment  was  spared  —  she  kept  the  shame  ! 

The  scandal  rose,  with  jingling-jangling  din, 

And  chattering  lassies,  wives,  and  mothers  join'd. 

At  first  she  saw  not  that  the  sin  was  guess'd ; 

But  slowly,  one  by  one,  her  lassie  friends, 

Her  very  bosom-gossips,  shook  her  off: 

She  heard  the  din,  she  blush'd  and  hid  her  face, 

Shrinking  away  and  trembling  as  with  cold, 

Like  Eve  within  the  garden  when  her  mouth 

Was  bitter  with  the  apple  of  the  Tree. 

One  night,  when  John  returned  from  work  and  took 
His  seat  upon  the  stool  beside  the  fire, 
I  saw  he  knew  the  truth.     For  he  was  changed  ! 
His  look  was  dark,  his  voice  was  loud,  his  eyes 
Had  lost  their  meekness  ;  when  we  spoke  to  him, 
He  flush'd  and  answer'd  sharply.     He  had  heard 
The  tale  of  Jessie's  shame  and  wickedness,  — 
What  thought  he  of  it  all  ?     Believe  me,  sir, 
He  was  a  riddle  still :  in  many  things 
So  peevish  and  so  simple,  but  in  one  — 
His  silly  dream  of  Jessie  Glover's  face  — 
So  manly  and  so  dumb,  —  with  power  to  hide 
His  sorrow  in  his  heart  and  turn  away 
Like  one  that  shuts  his  eyes  when  men  pass  by 
But  looks  on  Him.     'T  was  natural  to  think 
John  would  have  taken  angry  spiteful  joy 
In  Jessie's  fall,  —  for  he  was  ever  slow 
Forgetting  and  forgiving  injuries  ; 


THE  ENGLISH  HUSWIFE'S  GOSSIP.       219 

But  no  !  his  voice  was  dumb,  his  eyes  were  fierce, 
Yet  chiefly  when  they  mention'd  Jess  in  scorn, 
He  seem'd  confused  and  would  not  understand, 
Perplext  as  when  he  breaks  the  children's  toys. 

Now,  bold  as  Jessie  was,  she  could  not  bear 
The  shame  her  sin  had  brought  her,  and  whene'er 
We  met  she  tingled  to  the  finger-tips  ; 
And  soon  she  fled  away  to  Edinglass 
To  hide  among  the  smoke.     It  came  to  pass, 
The  Sabbath  after  she  had  flitted  off, 
That  Mister  Muckle wraith  (God  bless  him  !)  preach'd 
One  of  those  gentle  sermons  low  and  sad 
Wherewith  he  gathers  wheat  for  Him  he  serves  : 
The  text,  Let  him  who  is  sinless  cast  the  first 
Stone  at  the  sinner  ;  and  we  knew  he  preach'd 
Of  Jessie  Glover.     Hey  !  to  hear  him  talk 
Ye  would  have  sworn  that  Jessie  was  a  saint, 
An  injured  thing  for  folk  to  pet  and  coax  ! 
But  tho'  ye  know  't  was  folly,  springing  up 
Out  of  a  heart  so  kindly  to  the  core, 
Your  eyes  were  dim  with  tears  while  hearkening  — 
He  spake  so  low  and  sadly.    John  was  there. 

And  early  down  the  stairs  came  John  next  day 
Drest  in  his  Sabbath  clothes.     "  I  'm  going  away," 
He  whispers,  "  for  a  day  or  maybe  two  — 
Don't  be  afraid  if  I  'm  away  at  night, 
And  do  not  speak  to  Tom  "  ;  and  off  he  ran 
Ere  I  could  question.     When  the  evening  came, 
No  sign  of  John  !     Night  pass'd,  and  not  a  sign  ! 
Tom  sought  him  far  and  near  without  avail. 
The  next  night  came,  and  we  were  sitting  here 
Weary  and  pensive,  listening,  listening, 


220    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

To  every  step  that  pass'd,  when  in  stept  John, 
And  sat  beside  the  fire,  and  when  we  ask'd 
.Where  he  had  been,  he  snapt  us  short  and  crept 
Away  to  bed. 

But  by  and  by,  I  heard 

The  truth  from  John  himself,  —  a  truth  indeed 
That  was  and  is  a  puzzle,  will  remain 
A  puzzle  to  the  end.     And  can  ye  guess 
Where  John  had  been  ?     Away  in  Edinglass, 
At  Jessie  Glover's  side,  holding  her  hand 
And  looking  in  her  eyes  ! 

"Jessie!  "he  said; 

And  while  she  stared  stood  scraping  with  his  shoes, 
And  humm'd  and  haw'd  and  stammer'd  out  a  speech, 
Whose  sense,  made  clear  and  shorten'd,  came  to  this  : 
The  country  folk  that  call'd  her  cruel  names 
And  mock'd  her  so,  had  done  the  same  by  him  ! 
He  did  not  give  a  straw  for  what  they  said  ! 
He  did  not  give  a  straw,  and  why  should  she  ? 
And  tho'  she  laugh'd  before,  perchance  when  folk 
MiscalPd  her,  frighten'd  her  from  home  and  friends, 
She  'd  turn  to  simple  John  and  marry  him  ? 
For  he  had  money,  seven  pound  and  more, 
And  yonder  in  his  home,  to  stock  a  house, 
He  had  the  things  he  bought  at  Simpson's  sale  ; 
John  Thomson  paid  him  well,  and  he  could  work, 
And,  if  she  dried  her  eyes  and  married  him, 
Who  cared  for  Tom  and  Maggie,  and  the  folk 
That  thought  them   crazed  ?  .  .  John,  then  and  now 

ashamed, 

Said  that  she  flung  her  arms  about  his  neck, 
And  wept  as  if  her  heart  was  like  to  break, 


THE  FAERY  FOSTER-MOTHER.  221 

And  told  him  sadly  that  it  could  not  be. 

He    scratch 'd    his    head,   and    stared,    and    answer'd 

naught  — 

His  stock  of  words  was  done,  but  last,  he  forced 
His  money  in  the  weeping  woman's  hand, 
And  hasten'd  home  as  fast  as  he  could  run. 

He  minds  it  still !  it  haunts  him  night  and  day  ! 
Ay,  silly  tho'  he  be,  he  keeps  the  thought 
Of  Jess  still  hidden  in  his  heart ;  and  now, 
Wearing  away  like  snow-drift  in  the  sun, 
If  e'er  he  chance  to  see,  on  nights  at  home, 
One  of  the  things  he  bought  at  Simpson's  sale 
(I  keep  them  still,  tho'  they  are  worn  and  old), 
His  eyes  gleam  up,  then  glisten,  —  then  are  dark. 


THE   FAERY   FOSTER-MOTHER. 

i. 

F)  RIGHT  Eyes,  Light  Eyes  !  Daughter  of  a  Fay! 
•*-'  I  had  not  been  a  married  wife  a  twelvemonth  and 

a  day, 

I  had  not  nurst  my  little  one  a  month  upon  my  knee, 
When  down  among  the  blue-bell  banks  rose  elfins  three 

times  three, 
They  gript  me  by  the  raven  hair,  I  could  not  cry  for 

fear, 
They  put  a  hempen  rope  around  my  waist  and  dragg'd 

me  here, 
They  made  me  sit  and  give  thee  suck  as  mortal  mothers 

can, 


222    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 
Bright  Eyes,  Light  Eyes !  strange  and  weak  and  wan  ! 

II. 

Dim  Face,  Grim  Face !  lie  ye  there  so  still  ? 
Thy  red  red  lips  are  at  my  breast,  and  thou  may'st  suck 

thy  fill ; 
But  know  ye,  tho'  I  hold  thee  firm,  and  rock  thee  to  and 

fro, 
'T  is  not  to  soothe  thee  into  sleep,  but  just  to  still  my 

woe  ? 
And  know  ye,  when  I  lean  so  calm  against  the  wall  of 

stone, 
'T  is  when  I  shut  my  eyes  and  try  to  think  thou  art 

mine  own  ? 
And  know  ye,  tho'  my  milk  be  here,  my  heart  is  far 

away, 
Dim  Face,  Grim  Face  !  Daughter  of  a  Fay ! 

in. 

Gold  Hair,  Cold  Hair  !  Daughter  to  a  King ! 
Wrapt  in  bands,  of  snow-white  silk  with  jewels  glit- 
tering, 

Tiny  slippers  of  the  gold  upon  thy  feet  so  thin, 
Silver  cradle  velvet-lined  for  thee  to  slumber  in, 
Pygmy  pages,  crimson-hair'd,  to  serve  thee  on  their 

knees, 
To  bring  thee  toys  and  greenwood  flowers  and  honey 

bags  of  bees,  — 

I  was  but  a  peasant  lass,  my  babe  had  but  the  milk, 
Gold  Hair,  Cold  Hair  !  raimented  in  silk ! 

IV. 

Pale  Thing,  Frail  Thing  !  dumb  and  weak  and  thin, 
Altho'  thou  ne'er  dost  utter  sigh  thou  'rt  shadow'd  with 
a  sin ; 


THE  FAERY  FOSTER-MOTHER.          223 

Thy  minnie  scorns  to  suckle  thee,  thy  minnie  is  an  elf, 
Upon  a  bed  of  rose's-leaves  she  lies  and  fans  herself; 
And  though  my  heart  is  aching  so  for  one  afar  from  me, 
I  often  look  into  thy  face  and  drop  a  tear  for  thee, 
And  I  am  but  a  peasant  born,  a  lowly  cotter's  wife, 
Pale  Thing,  Frail  Thing !  sucking  at  my  life  ! 


Weak  Thing,  Meek  Thing !  take  no  blame  from  me, 
Altho'  my  babe  may  fade  for  lack  of  what  I  give  to 

thee  ; 
For  though  thou  art  a  stranger  thing,  and  though  thou 

art  my  woe, 

To  feel  thee  sucking  at  my  breast  is  all  the  joy  I  know, 
It  soothes  me  tho'  afar  away  I  hear  my  daughter  call, 
My  heart  were  broken  if  I  felt  no  little  lips  at  all ! 
If  I  had  none  to  tend  at  all,  to  be  its  nurse  and  slave, 
Weak  Thing,  Meek  Thing!  I  should  shriek  and  rave  ! 

VI. 

Bright  Eyes,  Light  Eyes  !  lying  on  my  knee  ! 
If  soon  I  be  not  taken  back  unto  mine  own  countree, 
To  feel  my  own  babe's  little  lips,  as  I  am  feeling  thine, 
To  smooth  the  golden  threads  of  hair,  to  see  the  blue 

eyes  shine,  — 
I  '11  lean  my  head  against  the  wall  and  close  my  weary 

eyes, 
And  think  my  own  babe  draws  the  milk  with  balmy 

pants  and  sighs, 
And  smile  and  bless  my  little  one  and  sweetly  pass 

away, 
Bright  Eyes,  Light  Eyes !  Daughter  of  a  Fay ! 


224    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 


THE    TWO    BABES. 


Hugh  Baird  his  name  :  a  fanner  well  to  do, 

Who  wars  against  the  godly-worldly  crew, 

Six  days  works  hard  and  keeps  his  name  from  spot, 

But  on  the  seventh  likes  his  dinner  hot. 

One  hand  imaginary  guineas  seeks 

Deep  in  the  pockets  of  his  tartan  breeks, 

The  other  grips  his  gill,  at  which  he  sips 

With  cordial  smiles  and  smackings  of  the  lips  ; 

Meanwhile,  within  the  sound  of  Sabbath  bells, 

He  tells  this  tale,  and  tipples  as  he  tells. 


HERE  'S  health  and  better  fortune  !  .  .  Houch,  't  is 
strong  !  — 
But  Sandie's  whiskey  is  a  drink  for  kings. 

That  minnow  of  a  man  is  Matthew  Bell, 
Who  holds  as  high  a  head  at  kirk  or  fair 
As  stout  Sir  Walter,  Laird  of  Wimplepen. 
The  Lord  preserve  us  !  — did  you  mark  the  look 
The  Saint  vouchsafed  the  sinners  as  he  pass'd, 
[The  bona  fide  sinners,  let  me  say  !] 
Grown  grim  as  Patience  shivering  in  her  sark, 
To  see  them  frighting  Truth,  the  nymph  of  wells, 
From  water  with  a  splash  of  whiskey  neat, 
And  'tween  the  hours  of  kirk  on  Sabbath  day 
Chatting  in  Sandie's  parlor?     That's  the  note 
The  bantam  crows !     From  here  to  John  o'  Groat's 
Find  me  a  mannikin  who  knows  so  much 
About  the  Book  of  Books,  or  half  so  much 


THE    TWO  BABES.  ^2$ 

About  that  mighty  work,  the  Ledger.     Rich  ? 
Ay,  —  as  his  fields  of  golden-tassell'd  wheat! 
Out  of  his  hundred  acres  year  by  year 
He  reaps  a  bonnetful  of  yellow  gold, 
And  lives  on  yonder  hill,  where  silent  Hairst 
Is  lying  like  an  angel  yellow-hair 'd. 

Langsyne,  a  child  was  born  to  Matthew  Bell  — 
As  sweet  a  child  as  ever  Howdie  holds 
For  sceptre,  when  she  queens  it  in  a  house, 
And  takes  the  goodman's  easy-chair,  and  makes 
The  sinner  tremble  at  his  own  fireside  ; 
And,  when  the  lass  was  tall  enough  to  touch 
Grim  Matthew's  watch-chain  with  her  golden  curls, 
Her  mother  died,  —  whom  country  tattle  said 
The  farmer's  dismal  pictures  of  the  Pit 
Had  frighten'd  up  to  heaven  ere  her  time. 
But  Maggie  —  as  they  named  her  —  lived  and  grew, 
And,  Sabbath-mad  as  Matthew  ever  was, 
He  lack'd  the  power  to  cloud  her  infant  smiles, 
And  later,  I  believe  he  lack'd  the  heart,  — 
When  o'er  her  mother's  grave  she  laugh'd  and  play'd, 
Or,  seated  on  her  gloomy  father's  knee, 
Look'd  her  young  sunshine  on  his  sunless  eyes. 

Thought  Matthew  most  of  Maggie's  golden  hair, 
Or  of  his  golden  wheat  and  golden  wealth  ? 
And  did  he  dream  of  one  whose  gleaming  locks 
Wound  round  the  worms  beneath  the  grass  and  flowers  ? 
And  did  he  fashion,  as  a  father  will, 
Pictures  of  Maggie  in  her  bridal  dress, 
With  a  grand  tocher  and  a  holy  ring  ? 
None  knew,  none  knew  ;  but  bonnie  Maggie  Bell 
Grew  like  a  lily  in  the  gloom  — a  maid 
15 


226    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

Slim,  pale  as  any  lily,  when  the  shades 
Of  sixteen  summers  wash'd  with  twilight  dew 
The  glow-worms  in  her  hair,  and  dark'd  her  eyes 
From  blue  to  deeper  blue  —  as  shades  of  clouds 
Pass  windily  o'er  the  grass  and  leave  their  tints 
Under  the  lids  of  pansies  wet  with  rain. 

Hey,  poetry  !  —  the  whiskey  is  to  blame. 

The  holy  house  of  Farmer  Matthew  kept 
John  Calvin's  Sabbath  all  the  gloomy  week  ; 
And  morn  and  night  poor  Maggie's  head  was  dinn'd 
With  Scripture  phrases,  and  the  puzzling  texts 
Interpreted  by  Mammon  on  his  knees. 
To  sing,  or  dance,  as  other  maidens  use, 
To  read  a  paper  or  a  fairy  tale, 
To  eye  her  image  in  the  looking-glass, 
Was  stark  damnation,  prompted  by  the  Deil. 
Weary  was  Maggie's  lot !     Her  yellow  hair 
Was  fasten'd  up  beneath  a  frowsy  net, 
And  hid  beneath  a  bonnet  strange  to  see 
For  shape  and  fashion  ;  and  her  dress  was  mean 
From  head  to  foot,  with  no  fine-color'd  bows 
Such  as  the  purest-hearted  lassies  love. 
This  grew  and  grew  to  such  a  pitch  at  last 
That  when  the  lass  in  secret  saved  a  pound, 
And  bought  herself  a  bonnet  fit  to  wear, 
Her  father  threw  the  same  upon  the  fire, 
And  grumbled  "  Vanity,"  and  glower'd  and  gioom'd, 
While  Maggie  wept.     Then  all  her  maiden  friends 
Christen'd  her  Quaker  Maggie  !  and  she  mourn'd 
In  secret  that  the  world  miscall'd  her  so  : 
Till  in  her  heart  she  hated  Sabbath-day, 
And  preaching,  and  the  very  Book  itself, 


THE    TWO  BABES.  227 

As  things  that  made  her  life  a  life  of  scorn. 
What  wonder  if  she  look'd  with  jealous  eyes 
At  lovely  ribbons  in  another's  cap  ? 
Thought  far  far  less  of  what  the  preacher  said 
Than  of  the  giggling  smiles  the  lassies  cast 
At  her  old  wear,  from  every  pew  around  ? 
And  when  her  father  question'd  of  the  text, 
Knew  just  as  much  about  it  as  a  child 
Who  pastes  his  nose  against  a  sweetie-shop 
Knows  of  the  moon  ?     This  kind  of  thing  in  time 
Made  Maggie  slightly  sour  in  temper,  dull 
And  peevish  as  a  school-boy  in  the  sulks, 
Till,  one  fine  day,  the  Farmer  went  his  way 
And  brought  another  wife  to  rule  the  roast. 

O,  holy,  holy,  as  the  Pope's  big  Toe, 
Was  Mistress  Bell  the  second  !     Half  a  yard 
Taller  than  Matthew,  —  and  a  widow,  Sir  ! 
She  was  a  woman  of  an  ancient  house, 
And  stoop'd,  they  said,  to  Matthew's  ploughman  blood. 
Sir,  she  was  tall  and  lean  as  Highland  firs, 
Sharp-featured  like  an  ancient  Virtue  vex'd 
With  influenza  and  a  constant  hoast, 
Nose  like  a  glowing  cinder,  sharp-cut  mouth 
Drawn  in  and  out  with  thin  and  oily  cheeps, 
And  small  hen's  eyes,  whose  twinkle  seem'd  to  say, 
"O,  am  I  not  — confess  it  — am  I  not 
A  credit  to  Creation  ?  "     Day  and  night 
Her  cry  was,  "  Vanity,  O  vanity  !  "  — 
And  aye  she  hurl'd  the  vengeance  of  the  skies 
At  comely  hizzies  dimpling  in  their  teens. 

You  guess  that  when  she  came  to  Matthew's  house, 
And  cast  her  gaze  on  beauteous  Maggie  Bell, 


228    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

She  loved  the  maid  no  better  than  a  bat 

Loves    sunshine.      There   was  scolding,   there    were 

tears  ; 

This  thing  was  wrong  in  Maggie,  that  thing  wrong  ; 
And  Maggie  mourn'd,  and  could  not  teach  her  lips 
To  call  the  gray  mare  "  mother  "  ;  and  for  him, 
Grim  Matthew,  haply  now  and  then  a  thrill 
Of  fellow-feeling  made  his  cankerous  heart 
Pity  his  child  a  wee,  but,  bless  my  life  ! 
It  was  as  much  as  his  old  ears  were  worth 
To  cross  the  Clishmaclaver  he  had  wed. 
So  Maggie  Bell  began  to  use  her  tongue, 
To  answer  back,  returning  scold  for  scold, 
To  utter  words  that  bit  like  adders'  mouths  ; 
But  mind  you,  she  was  sorely  vex'd  and  tried. 

Though  mortals  wrangle,  still  the  sunshine  falls  ; 
The  earth  grows  fruitful  and  the  seasons  change, 
While  mortals  come  and  go.     Around  the  farm 
The  land  was  spreading  on  from  fence  to  fence, 
Acre  on  acre,  golden  rood  on  rood, 
And  aye  the  money  rang  in  Matthew's  pouch ; 
For  spite  of  all  those  pious  ways  of  his, 
And  spite  his  married  troubles  in  the  house, 
The  canny  farmer  ne'er  forsook  the  toil 
Of  making  and  increasing.     Nay,  my  friend  ! 
O'er-clever  was  the  loon  for  poor  half  crops 
And  business  neglected  !     Year  by  year, 
His  bank-books  and  his  ledgers  fatter  grew 
Like  o'er-fed  leeches  ;  year  by  year"  he  throve  ; 
And  year  by  year,  the  farm  that  yonder  lies, 
With  slated  room  and  whiten'd  doors  and  walls, 
Stood  up  upon  the  hill  'mid  harvest  home 
Hid  like  a  pearl  in  lady's  yellow  hair. 


THE    TWO   BABES.  229 

Ere  Maggie  Bell  had  enter'd  on  her  teens, 
One  Robin  Anderson,  a  long-limb'd  lad, 
With  pocket  empty  as  a  last  year's  nest, 
Came  lounging  to  the  farm  and  seeking  work ; 
And  Matthew  set  the  stranger  'mong  the  wheat, 
Gave  him  a  reaping  hook  and  bade  him  shear, 
And  ere  the  sunset  made  above  the  hills 
A  mimic  picture  of  the  hairst,  the  lad 
Had  earned  a  strong  man's  hire.    Matthew  was  pleased ; 
Said  little  ;  but  he  gave  the  boy  a  bed 
Out  in  the  byre,  and  there  the  stranger  slept 
Alone  among  the  kine.     A  clever  lad  ! 
He  wrought  and  shore,  and  earn'd  both  pence  and  praise, 
Strong  as  a  stallion,  modest  as  a  mouse  ; 
But  hark  you,  when  the  Sabbath  day  came  round, 
And  Matthew  cast  his  eyes  around  the  kirk, 
Whom  should  he  spy,  a  sheep  among  the  flock, 
But  Robin  !  .  .  and  the  laddie's  looks  were  cast 
Full  modest  on  his  book,  his  jet-black  hair 
Was  neatly  comb'd  behind  his  rabbit-ears, 
His  poor  old  clothes  were  patch'd  and  cleanly  brush'd, 
And  butter  soft  seem'd  melting  in  his  mouth,  — 
And  when  he  met  his  master's  canker'd  gaze, 
He  blush'd  like  any  maid  and  seem'd  ashamed. 

A  clever  lad  was  Robin  Anderson ! 
A  clever,  clever  lad  with  fox's  eyes  ! . 
A  clever,  clever  lad  in  lambkin's  gear ! 
Kirk  over,  Matthew  took  him  by  the  arm, 
And,  with  a  grim  inquisitorial  look, 
Question'd  the  trembling  lad  upon  the  text,  — 
And  scarce  a  word  the  Preacher  dropt  that  day 
But  Robin  had  by  heart.     Then  Matthew  Bell 
Was  hugely  pleased  to  see  the  lad  so  good  — 


230    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  2NVERBURN. 

So  grand  a  worker  with  the  reaping-hook. 

And  such  a  pattern  at  his  prayers  beside  : 

"  Keep  on,  my  lad,"  he  said,  "  as  you  begin  ; 

You  '11  be  a  wealthy  man,  before  you  die 

And  go  to  glory."     After  that,  to  kirk 

Went  Robin,  never  missing  night  or  morn. 

Next,  later  on,  one  Sabbath  night,  the  lad 

Came  stumping  to  the  kitchen,  in  his  hand 

An  old  torn  Bible,  and,  with  hums  and  haws, 

And  mighty  fear  of  giving  some  offence, 

Would  have  the  Farmer  open  and  expound 

A  text  that  puzzled  sore.     Now,  nothing  pleased 

Old  Matthew  better  than  the  like  of  this  — 

A  chance  of  showing  off  the  Grace  of  God, 

And  his  own  Scripture  learning,  both  at  once. 

He  smiled  and  took  the  Book,  put  on  his  specs, 

And  read,  and  as  he  read  expounded  all, 

With  godly-worldly  comment  of  his  own, 

Till  Robin  stared  in  awe,  and  saw  it  plain, 

And  thank'd  his  teacher  with  a  hungry  look, 

And  with  a  sigh  that  seem'd  to  rend  his  heart 

Wish'd  he  were  half  as  holy,  half  as  good, 

Or  half  as  learn'd,  as  Matthew.     After  that, 

He  came  on  other  errands  ben  the  house, 

Hearken'd  to  Matthew  like  a  hungry  sheep, 

And  grew  so  pious,  holy,  and  so  good, 

That  when  the  wheat  was  shorn  and  strain'd  and  put 

With  golden  glitter  in  the  bank  in  town, 

Old  Matthew  paid  the  crowd  of  reapers  off, 

But  kept  the  creeshie  Robin  Anderson 

To  do  a  laborer's  work  about  the  farm. 

A  clever  chiel  was  Robin  Anderson ! 
He  never  spake  bad  words,  ne'er  tasted  drink, 


THE    TWO  BABES.  231 

Nor  brake  the  seventh  commandment ;  he  was  deep 

In  knowledge  both  of  figures  and  the  Book  ; 

He  taught  himself  to  read  and  write  and  sum 

While  sinners  were  at  play.     So  day  by  day 

He  throve  and  throve  in  Matthew  Bell's  esteem, 

And  rose  and  rose  ;  till,  when  the  house  was  storm'd 

By  Mistress  Bell  the  second,  he  arranged 

His  cards  so  well,  and  seem'd  so  mild  and  meek, 

And  play'd  so  well  on  the  gray  mare's  conceit  — 

Seeming  to  think  her,  not  a  saint  alone, 

But  a  braw  woman  with  a  beauteous  face  — 

That  Mistress  Bell  was  won  to  like  the  man 

And  tuck  him  under  her  maternal  wing. 

To  make  the  story  short,  this  clever  chiel, 

By  dint  of  bowing,  praying,  laboring, 

Throve  in  the  holy  household,  and  so  well, 

That  Matthew  later  made  hiir>  overseer 

O'er  all  the  fields,  and  ascertain'd  in  time 

The  head  and  hand  of  Robin  Anderson 

Were  needful  to  his  life  as  meat  and  drink. 

Meantime,  poor  Maggie  ?     Year  by  year  the  lass 
Had  waited  wearily  and  work'd  and  wept, 
Seeing  her  mother's  pitying  eyes  look  down 
Among  the  other  stars  that  lit  the  sky; 
And  aye  she  moan'd,  "  O  mother,  art  thou  there  ? 
And  may  I  come  to  meet  thee,  minnie  mine  ?  " 
But  spite  of  tears,  and  anger  whose  blue  flame 
Burns  out  the  sweetness  of  a  comely  face 
Sooner  than  tears,  and  spite  of  weary  pain, 
Maggie  was  bonnie,  bonnie,  bonnie  !  —  grew 
From  bonnier  to  bonnier  year  by  year  ! 
Against  her  will,  and  in  her  heart's  despite, 
Health  loved  her  so  that  like  an  ivy's  arm 


*32    IDYLS  AATD  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

It  clung  about  her,  would  forsake  her  not. 
Giving  and  taking  beauty.     She  was  pale, 
But  't  was  the  pallor  of  a  lily  flower 
Full-blooming,  not  the  pallor  of  disease. 
The  passionate  appeals  made  day  and  night 
To  one  who  shone  above,  put  in  her  eyes 
Fresh-color'd  gleams  of  heaven's  own  violet  hue  ; 
And  aye  the  sunshine  sparkling  in  her  hair 
Tangled  itself  like  ears  of  golden  wheat ; 
And  aye  the  tears  she  shed  so  often  weigh'd 
Like  dew-drops  on  a  lily's  stem,  and  gave 
Her  gentle  head  a  drooping  grace  more  sweet 
Than  ruddy-featured  boldness.     Sombre  gear, 
Old-fashion'd  raiment,  and  the  like,  but  served 
To  make  this  beauty  plainer,  as  the  night 
Shows  off  the  modest  moon.     All  scorn,  all  arts 
To  hide  her  beauteousness  and  humble  her, 
Were  lost  on  Maggie  Bell !  —  Darkly  they  fell, 
Coldly  and  gloomily,  as  murmuring  rain 
Tumbles  on  beds  of  flowers  ;  —  and  'mid  it  all 
The  flowers  lift  up  their  heads  and  vainly  try 
To  shake  the  drops  away,  and  as  they  toyte 
They  sparkle  with  a  thousand  diamond  pearls, 
Looking  the  lovelier  for  the  load  they  bear ! 

So  time  wore  slowly  on,  till  Maggie  Bell 
Was  sweet  and  twenty.     Half  the  country  side 
Went  wild  about  her  face,  the  other  half 
Went  wild  about  her  dowry.     What  of  that  ? 
Old  Matthew's  canker'd  eyes  were  looking  high, 
Seeking  a  man  of  godliness  and  wealth 
To  wed  his  child  and  multiply  his  fame  ; 
And  Mistress  Bell  would  have  no  idle  loons 
Come  hanging  round  the  farm  —  'twas  neither  right, 


THE    TWO  BABES.  233 

Nor  safe,  nor  delicate  ;  and,  as  it  seem'd, 
The  maid  herself  cared  little  for  the  sport, 
The  juggling  of  the  eyes  and  lips  and  mouth, 
Which  long  ago  unpetticoated  Eve 
First  taught  to  breekless  Adam  Gardener. 

Strange  she  should  take  to  Robin  Anderson  ;  — 
Yet  so  she  did,  though  Matthew  guess'd  it  not, 
And  no  suspicion  of  the  friendship  struck 
The  Clishmaclaver.     Many  a  kindly  turn 
Sly  Robin  did  for  Maggie  ;  many  a  time 
He  screen'd  her  from  the  storm  !  —  I  knew  him  well, 
And,  just  when  Maggie's  beauty  was  full-blown, 
I  noticed  that  a  change  came  over  him  : 
He  went  to  kirk  no  less,  but  it  was  plain 
His  thoughts  were  troublesome  and  ill  at  ease ; 
Often  when  spoken  to,  he  started,  blush'd, 
Seem'd  shamed  like  one  detected  in  a  theft ; 
In  kirk,  forgot  to  look  upon  the  book, 
And  glinted  nervously  aroundabout. 
This  puzzled  me  ; — but  Robin  Anderson 
Was  softer  hearted  than  he  wish'd  to  seem  — 
Had  kindliness  beneath  his  sombre  gear  — 
Would  smile  and  place  his  finger  on  his  lips 
If  now  and  then  I  mock'd  his  creeshie  ways  — 
And,  what  was  more,  was  passionate,  I  knew, 
In  certain  sad  and  fleshly  vanities, 
Like  other  men,  from  Adam  down  to  me. 

At  last,  J;he  lily-flower  on  Maggie's  cheek 
Grew  sickly,  and  an  icy  glitter  struck 
The  sweetness  from  her  eyes  ;  she  answer'd  back, 
To  them  that  chid  her,  with  an  angry  tongue ; 
And  hollow,  hollow,  up  and  down  the  house, 


234    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

With  mixtie-maxtie  echoes  plump'd  the  foot 
That  once  had  fall'n  as  soft  as  flakes  of  snow. 
Her  father  watch'd  her  with  his  yellow  eye  ; 
The  Clishmaclaver  shrugg'd  her  thin  old  back 
And  sneer'd  and  mutter'd,  daring  not  to  speak 
Out  loudly,  for  the  lassie's  fiend  was  up ; 
And  Robin  Anderson,  with  oily  grace, 
Strove  hard  to  make  the  sunder'd  house  agree, 
But  vainly.     By  and  by  't  was  plain  to  see 
That  Maggie  wander'd  in  a  kind  of  mist, 
Confused  and  lost,  for  when  you  spake,  and  loud, 
She  listen'd  dreamily  like  one  who  hears 
The  hollow  chiming  of  a  far-off  bell ; 
And  now  the  maiden  who,  though  sorely  tried, 
Had  aye  a  pattern  been  of  cleanly  ways, 
Was  heedless  of  the  judgment  of  the  world 
As  nettles  running  ragged  in  a  lane. 

This  could  not  last  for  long.     Came  harvest-time, 
And  reapers  flock'd  with  hooks  to  Matthew's  farm  ; 
And  round  the  farm,  around,  above,  below, 
The  fields  rose  thick  and  yellow  with  the  grain  ; 
And  o'er  the  fields  the  buzzing^  murmur  sped ; 
And  o'er  the  fields  the  shadows  of  the  clouds 
Pass'd  dark,  in  patches,  in  their  own  soft  wind. 
Ne'er  had  the  moon's  moist  horn  been  fill'd  so  high 
With  ripeness,  gold,  and  fragrance.     So  the  heart 
Of  Matthew  crow'd,  as  loud  as  any  cock. 
But  on  the  Sabbath  day,  the  first  of  hairst, 
The  Farmer  and  his  wife  sat  ben  the  house 
With  Robin  Overseer,  and  crack'd  and  talk'd 
Of  holy  matters  spiced  with  thoughts  of  gain, 
Till  time  for  prayers  ;  and  when  the  time  was  come, 
And  all  the  house  was  summon'd,  Matthew  cried, 


THE    TWO  BABES  235 

"  Where  's  Maggie  ? "  —  but  no  Maggie  heard  the  cry ; 

And  Mistress  Bell  went  flyting  thro'  the  farm, 

From  room  to  room  ;  while  from  the  house  the  call 

For  Maggie  pass'd  into  the  fields  and  byres  : 

But  Maggie  came  not ;  at  the  last  upran 

A  cotter's  lass,  barefooted,  pale  to  see, 

Who  cried  with  many  a  stammer,  many  a  pause, 

"  O  mem  !  O  Mistress  Bell !  O  Mister  Bell ! 

You  're  looking  oot  for  Maggie,  are  you  no'  ? 

But  Maggie  's  gane  !  "     "  Gone  ! "  screech'd  the  quire, 

"gone  where  ?  " 

"  O  mem,  to  Edinglass,"  the  lassie  cried. 
"  I  met  her  down  the  lawlan  all  her  lane, 
And  she  was  greeting  sair,  and  when  I  look'd 
She  stay'd  and  tellt  me  a',  and  bade  me  gie 
This  message  to  her  faither  :  '  Tell  him,  Meg, 
Says  she,  '  I  'm  gaun  awa','  says  she,  '  for  gude, 
Ne'er  to  return,  but  that  I  pray  the  Lord 
May  ne'er  be  hard  wi'  him  as  him  wi'  me, 
Nor  bring  him  to  as  sair  a  shamefu'  end ' ; 
And  then  wi'  pale,  pale  face  she  slipt  awa', 
Afore  I  kenn'd  her  meaning,  and  was  gane  !  " 

Sir,  so  it  was.     There  was  a  wild  to-do, 
Old  Matthew  glared  and  gloom'd  like  one  gone  wild, 
The  Clishmaclaver  fainted.     Far  and  near 
The  reapers  search'd  and  search'd,  along  the  roads, 
And  down  the  village  ;  but  they  sought  in  vain. 
Yet  Maggie  reach'd  not  Edinglass  that  night, 
Nor  the  next  night,  nor  many  a  night  to  come  ; 
For  as  she  ran  beneath  the  moon,  a  swoon 
Struck  her  like  blinding  moonshine,  and  her  limbs 
Just  served  to  bear  her  to  a  cotter's  door, 
And  there,  with  clenching  teeth  and  hands,  she  fell. 


236    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

The  cotter's  wife,  who  knew  her,  bare  her  in  ; 
And  there  she  lay  ;  and  ere  the  pallid  dawn 
Stared  in  upon  her  with  its  dead  man's  eyes, 
There  came  the  fitful  crying  of  a  child, 
And  Maggie,  white  and  shuddering,  shriek'd  to  hear. 

Such  news  spreads  quickly.     Ere  the  day  was  done, 
Poor  Maggie's  shame  was  common  whisper'd  talk 
O'er  all  the  country-side  —  at  cottage  hearths, 
And  in  the  harvest  fields.     The  black  news  came 
To  Matthew,  where  he  wrought  with  hook  himself 
(So  eager  was  he  for  the  harvest  gain) 
Among  the  reapers  ;  and  he  call'd  a  curse 
On  Maggie  and  her  child,  clenching  his  fists 
To  scream  his  godly  thunder  ;  lastly  cried 
To  Robin  Anderson,  whose  eyes  droop'd  down : 
"  Go  to  the  lassie  —  go  —  and  go  at  once  — 
And  tell  her,  if  she  cross  my  path  again, 
I  draw  my  fist  across  her  shameless  face 
And  tread  her  under  foot ;  and  tell  her,  too, 
That,  day  or  night,  be 't  sawing  or  be  't  hairst, 
My  prayers  will  call  a  curse  upon  her  head ! " 
And  Robin  strode  away  without  a  word, 
As  grim  and  gloomy  as  a  thunder-cloud  ; 
And  ere  an  hour  came  back  into  the  field, 
And  told  his  master  he  had  done  his  will. 
"  What  said  she  ?  "  ask'd  the  Farmer,  frowning  fierce, 
And  ground  his  heel  upon  the  stubbly  soil. 
"  Naught !  "  answer'd  Robin,  short,  —  and  turn'd  away, 
Biting  his  lips  and  scowling  on  the  ground, 
And  wrought  in  silence  till  the  sun  was  set. 


THE   TWO  BABES.  237 


II. 


O  bitter,  bitter  was  the  Farmer's  heart, 
And  all  his  pleasure  of  the  Hairst  was  sour'd  ! 
But  when  the  Clishmaclaver,  giving  tongue, 
Began  that  night  to  rail  on  Maggie's  shame, 
Grim  Matthew  sharply  bade  her  hold  her  peace, 
Nor  mention  Maggie  more  ;  and  Mistress  Bell, 
Knowing  the  man  was  fierce  to  have  his  way, 
Stopt  short  and  lookt  as  sour  as  buttermilk. 
Then  all  was  dreary  silence  in  the  house  ; 
And  Matthew  took  the  Book,  put  on  his  specs, 
And  tried  to  read,  but  aye  the  specs  grew  dim 
With  moisture  from  his  eyes  ;  till,  with  a  cry, 
Almost  a  curse,  he  closed  the  Book  and  rush'd 
Forth  to  the  outer  darkness.     Who  could  sound 
The  Farmer's  thoughts  ?  and  were  they  something  sad 
And  did  pale  Conscience  put  her  mourning  on  ? 
I  know  not ;  but  for  long  and  weary  hours 
He  wander'd  out  among  the  wheat ;  near  dawn 
Saw  the  moist  stars  that  loosen'd  one  by  one 
From  Night's  gray  robe  like  jewels  from  a  dress  ; 
And  at  the  break  of  day  return'd  —  with  eyes 
Crimson,  and  not  thro'  weeping,  with  his  cheeks 
As  pale  as  frost  upon  a  cold  gray  pane, 
But  cats'-claws  at  the  edges  of  the  lips 
To  show  a  selfish  fiend  was  uppermost. 

You  guess  the  neighbors,  both  the  rich  and  poor, 
Were  little  loath  to  see  so  taken  down 
The  Farmer's  pride  and  Mistress  Bell's  conceit. 
Clang,  clang  went  Scandal,  sounding  like  a  chime 


238    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

From  cottage  unto  cottage,  till  the  place 
Was  jingling  like  a  belfry  out  of  tune. 
Then,  with  the  cruel  clangor  in  her  ears, 
Poor  Maggie  clasp'd  her  child  and  fled  away 
To  Edinglass  ;  and  in  that  cloud  of  life 
She  faded  like  a  brownie  in  a  mist. 
The  Clishmaclaver,  though  she  made  a  fuss, 
Was  strong  in  constitution,  and  her  heart 
Not  apt  to  break  so  easily :  poor  lamb, 
She  bore  her  trouble  like  a  saint  in  stone. 
But  Matthew  went  about  with  mildew'd  heart, 
Ne'er  wept,  and  wrought  as  hard  as  any  horse  ; 
But  he  was  absent,  and  his  wandering  eyes 
Dropt  from  your  honest  look  to  seek  the  ground  ; 
His  shoulders  caught  a  trick  of  stooping —  so  ! 
And  when  a  lassie  or  a  lad  went  wrong 
His  voice  was  not  so  loud  in  stern  rebuke, 
Among  the  gumlie  Elders,  as  of  old. 

The  pious  reaper.  Robin  Anderson, 
Seem'd  also  burden'd  with  a  bitter  load  ; 
Shame  weigh'd  upon  him ;  once  or  twice,  when  vext 
At  trifles,  he  was  plainly  heard  to  swear  ; 
And  when  the  harvest  store  was  gather'd  in, 
He  came  as  from  a  funeral.     The  nights 
Grew  long  and  cold,  and  so  the  winter  pass'd  ; 
And  in  the  middle  winter  came  a  cry 
Which  swept  as  crimson  fire  on  Matthew's  face,  — 
That  Maggie  lived  in  Edinglass  the  life 
Of  thousands  dead  to  dying.     When  the  news 
One  gusty  gloaming  reach'd  the  ingleside, 
The  Farmer  fairly  fell  on  Robin's  breast, 
And  to  the  whistling  of  a  winter  wind 
Scream'd  Maggie's  mother's  name  and  moan'd  aloud. 


THE    TWO  BABES.  239 

But  ere  the  azure  eyes  of  May,  suffused 
With  dewy  rapture,  open'd  to  behold 
A  rainbow  sowing  flowers  upon  the  spot 
Where  winter  buried  lay,  old  Matthew  Bell 
Forgot  his  shame  and  sorrow  in  a  joy 
Just  on  the  edge  of  finish,  like  a  kiss 
That  hangs  in  honey  on  a  dewy  lip, 
Melting  in  incompletion.     For  the  stars 
Were  smiling  on  the  lap  of  Mistress  Bell, 
Who  promised  brawly  to  obey  the  text,  — - 
"  Be  fruitful,  multiply,  replenish  earth  !  "  — 
In  decent  manner.     So  indeed  it  was  ! 
When  May  with  neck  as  white  as  curds  and  cream 
Peept  blushing  up  'mong  roses  white  and  red, 
And  when  the  laverock  resting  on  her  wrist 
Went  warbling  up  till  it  became  a  speck 
Of  sunshine  (O  the  whiskey !),  —  round  the  neck 
Of  cankerous  Mistress  Bell  there  hung  a  babe, 
As  plump  as  ever  cuddled  mother's  breast, 
A  tiny  stumpie-stowsie  clutch'd  with  pride. 

O  Matthew's  heart  was  high  !  his  aged  lungs 
Were  rax'd  like  chanticleer's  !  and  in  his  joy 
He  could  have  hugg'd  the  Howdie,  had  she  been 
Less  notable  for  snappishness  and  sneesh  ! 
Great  bliss  he  felt  to  have  a  son  and  heir, 
To  keep  his  mem'ry  holy  in  the  land 
And  multiply  the  siller.     One  there  was 
In  all  the  farm  who  seem'd  to  welcome  not 
The  little  one  —  the  gladness  and  the  hope. 
'T  was  Robin  Anderson.     At  twenty-eight, 
Sly  Robin  was  a  man  of  pith  and  power, 
Full  six-feet  high,  with  whiskers  like  a  fox, 
And  eyes  set  deep  'neath  mathematic  brows. 


240    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

And  Robin  ever  loudly  vow'd  himself 
(Though  I,  for  one,  knew  better,  as  I  said) 
Above  all  corporal  lusts  and  vanities  : 
He  marry  ?  —  nay !  to  buy  a  kiss  in  Kirk, 
Then  strangle  Freedom  with  an  apron  string, 
And  waste  his  substance  on  a  noisy  pack 
Of  tapsileeries  ranged  from  big  to  small 
Like  polisht  pots  within  a  public-house  ! 

And  when  his  joy  was  fullest,  Robin  came 
But  little  ben  the  farm  ;  and  when  in  mirth 
They  brought  the  chittering  infant  to  his  seat 
Beside  the  glowing  kitchen  fire,  he  gazed, 
And  snigger'd  out  a  feeble  idiot  smile, 
And  with  his  great  forefinger  touch'd  the  child 
As  one  inspects  a  curious  kind  of  fish, 
Seem'd  half  afraid  't  would  bite,  and,  sorely  push'd, 
Confess'd  't  was  bonnie,  with  a  long-drawn  sigh, 
As  if  the  bonnieness  was  sad  to  see. 
And  ever  after  that,  do  all  he  could, 
And  clever  tho'  he  was  to  act  a  part, 
He  never  show'd  a  liking  for  the  child  ; 
Though  what  was  stirring  in  his  heart  of  hearts 
The  Father,  knew,  He  who  for  gracious  ends 
Decrees  his  children  shall  be  fathers  too. 
He  better  could  have  dealt  with  one  full-grown 
Than  with  a  fretful,  feckless,  restless  thing 
He  lack'd  the  art  to  handle.     So  at  last 
He  fairly  threw  aside  the  slippery  sham, 
And  kept  away  as  if  the  child  had  been 
A  biting  cankerous  cur.     All  this,  be  sure, 
Pleased  Matthew  little,  and  the  mother  less, 
And  she  grew  high,  and  Matthew  he  grew  stiff, 
And  both  grew  colder  as  the  year  wore  on. 


THE   TWO  BABES.  241 

This  bother'd  Robin  sore.     He  spake  few  words, 
Toil'd  stoutly,  late  and  early,  went  to  work, 
Blacken'd  in  sanctity  to  the  finger-tips, 
And  often  rode  to  Edinglass  to  spend 
Whole  day  with  country  cousins,  as  he  said. 
But  oft,  when  none  were  near  him,  Robin  heard, 
A  weakly  moaning  voice  among  the  wheat ; 
A  tearful  sobbing,  sobbing,  fill'd  his  ear, 
When  mistily,  sadly,  fell  the  autumn  rain  ; 
And  in  his  soul  the  image  of  a  child 
Battled  with  fiends.     I  plainly  saw  the  man 
Hated  himself,  and  some  cold  snake  that  shed 
Its  slime  upon  his  heart ;  and  more  than  once 
I  made  a  guess,  which  after-days  proved  true. 

Then  once  again  came  harvest,  reapers  reapt, 
And  all  was  rich  and  yellow  with  the  grain. 

O  yellow,  yellow  waved  the  wealthy  ears, 
And  yellow,  yellow  thro'  the  misty  stalks 
The  sunshine  drew  its  threads  of  liquid  gold ; 
Hairst  nodded,  nodded,  with  a  deep-drawn  breath, 
The  sun-tann'd  reapers  reapt,  the  golden  showers 
Fell  like  a  garment  rustling  to  the  knees 
Of  beauty,  and  from  fence  to  fence  the  shout 
Of  reapers  ran,  and  in  among  the  sheaves 
Barefooted  gleaners  douk'd  with  brimming  hands. 
O  yellow,  yellow  waved  the  wealthy  ears  ! 
But  in  a  field  half-reap'd,  and  brightly  paved 
With  sparkling  stubble,  Robin  work'd  alone'  — 
His  color'd  handkerchief  about  his  loins, 
And  on  his  head  a  broad-brimm'd  hat  of  straw. 

When  sunny  Noon  was  steaming,  from  the  house 
Came  Mistress  Bell,  and  in  her  hands  the  babe, 

16 


^4t^    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

And  down  among  the  harvest-home  she  walk'd 

Raising  the  little  one  to  see  the  fields, 

The  reapers  reaping,  and  the  sun  above ; 

And  aye  the  mannock  crow'd  and  waved  his  hands, 

And  blink'd  his  azure  eyes  against  the  sun, 

And  smiled  and  shone  and  leapt  —  for  all  the  world, 

Like  a  stray  sunbeam  flickering  about 

The  mother's  bosom.     As  the  stars  arranged, 

Down  to  the  very  spot  where  Robin  wrought, 

Down-bending  'neath  the  yellow  as  she  came, 

Walk'd  the  goodwife  —  whom  love,  and  joy,  and  pride 

Of  happy  hairst,  and  fatness  in  the  bud, 

Made  almost  bonnie.     In  the  neighboring  field 

Just  then  arose  a  clamor  as  of  men 

In  loud  and  fierce  contention  ;  half  surprised, 

Half  curious,  she  placed  the  child  with  care 

Upon  a  cosey  heap  of  fallen  wheat, 

And  hasten'd,  fast  as  her  old  legs  could  run, 

To  gaze  and  question  o'er  the  low  green  hedge. 

As  Fortune  plann'd  it,  she  had  laid  the  bairn 

Close  to  the  spot  where  Robin  bound  the  sheaves  ; 

And  peeping  underneath  the  sheaves  of  wheat 

The  child  (too  wee  to  harbor  malice  !)  saw 

The  reaper,  laugh'd,  and  blink'd  its  azure  eyes, 

Stretch'd  out  its  plump  pink  arms  and  cried  aloud, 

And  would  have  tumbled  from  its  yellow  bed 

Had  Anderson  not  thrown  his  tools  aside 

And  ran  to  help  it.     "  Now,"  the  reaper  thought, 

"  I  '11  watch  the  child  till  Mistress  Bell  returns, 

And  this  may  help  to  heal  the  old  offence  !  " 

And  while  he  thought,  the  mannikin  lay  still 

Blinking  full  sage  as  if  it  knew  the  doubt 

Of  him,  the  gloomy  man,  whose  hollow  eyes 

Lookt  at  it  half  afraid.     With  that  the  Lord 


THE   TWO  BABES.  243 

Bade  His  bright  sunshine  and  His  Harvest-home, 

His  merry  sights  and  sounds,  His  happy  light, 

His  peace  and  plenteousness  of  autumn  gifts, 

Mix  with  the  smiling  of  the  little  child 

And  swim  in  vision  on  the  reaper's  heart. 

A  gush  like  mother's  milk  fill'd  Robin's  heart, 

Warming  that  heart  until  it  leapt  for  fun ; 

And  with  the  harvest  dazzling  on  his  eyes 

The  reaper  laugh'd  aloud  and  color'd  red. 

Still  Mistress  Bell  stay'd  cracking  at  the  hedge 

With  one  she  knew,  and  part  forgot  her  charge 

And  part  was  dimly  conscious  it  was  safe. 

Was  Robin  daft,  or  drunk,  or  both  at  once  ? 

For  with  a  wheaten  straw  of  feathery  end 

He  tickled,  tan  tied,  at  the  infant's  throat, 

And  poked  the  honeyed  dimples  of  its  chin, 

Until  the  child  crow'd  loud  and  kick'd  and  scream'd, 

And  flung  its  arms  about,  and  jump'd  for  fun ; 

Till,  fairly  madden'd  with  a  reckless  glee, 

This  holy  man,  this  clever  clever  chiel, 

This  big-boned  reaper,  Robin  Anderson, 

Caught  up  the  wean,  and  tost  it  in  the  air, 

And  rock'd  it  in  his  arms  and  tousled  it, 

And  not  a  mother  in  her  teens  could  be 

More  glad,  more  tender.     In  the  midst  of  all, 

Back  came  the  mistress  :  Robin  saw  her  not, 

But  laugh'd,  and  tost  the  wean,  and  tousled  it ; 

Till  suddenly  he  turn'd  and  caught  her  eye  : 

"  What,  Robin  !  "  —  and  the  reaper  held  the  babe 

Between  his  hands,  blushing  with  heat  and  shame, 

And  eyed  his  little  load  with  sheepish  look 

As  doubting  whether  he  should  hold  it  fast, 

Or  let  it  tumble,  —  scraping  with  his  feet ; 

Till,  gasping,  gaping,  like  a  startled  hen, 


*44  IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

She  took  the  infant,  gave  him  one  long  gaze, 
And  walkt  away  as  stupefied  and  dumb 
As  if  the  very  Deil  had  stolen  up 
And  wrought  a  miracle  beneath  her  nose ! 

Hey !     Robin  was  as  shamed  as  shamed  could  be, 
And  bound  the  sheaves  all  day,  with  gloomy  eyes 
That  sought  the  ground.     Then  gloaming  powder'd 

heaven 

With  stars  that  floated  silver  in  the  air, 
And  'neath  the  stars  Hairst  sighing  fell  to  sleep 
With  misty  breath  and  audible  golden  wings, 
And  all  the  weary  reapers  reap'd  no  more. 
Long  time  stay'd  Robin  in  the  dark  without, 
Grumbling,  delaying,  shamed,  afraid  to  meet 
The  eyes  of  women  in  the  farm  within  ; 
But  partly  hunger  moved  and  partly  pride, 
And  with  a  big  defiant  lounge  he  strode 
Into  the  kitchen,  where  the  laborers, 
Women  and  men,  with  spoons  of  season'd  wood, 
Were  dipping  at  the  smoking  porridge-bowl. 
And  there,  between  a  strapping  maiden's  knees, 
Was  Master  Matthew  Bell,  the  son  and  heir ! 
No  Mistress  Bell  was  there  ;  but  when  the  child 
Saw  Robin  Anderson,  he  crow'd  aloud, 
Kicking  and  laughing,  tumbling  on  the  knee,  — 
And  Robin,  ere  he  knew,  was  at  his  side, 
Tickling  and  tousling  him,  —  like  one  indeed 
That  partly  sported  to  defy  the  voice 
That  said  he  could  not  sport,  and  casting  round 
His  quick  defiant  glances  now  and  then, 
But  with  a  secret  honeyedness  of  heart. 
All  stared  —  none  spoke  a  word  ;  but  laughing  eyes 
Sparkled,  and  looks  of  wonder  pass'd  about, 


THE    TWO  BABES.  245 

While  Robin's  frenzy  brighten'd,  grew  and  grew, 
Till  the  wee  treble  and  the  big  haw,  haw ! 
Like  a  grand  giant  and  a  wee  wee  gnome, 
Rang  merry,  merry,  merry ! 

After  that, 

No  better  friends  could  dwell  in  Christendie 
Than  Robin  and  the  wean  ;  and,  stranger  still, 
After  that  night  the  art  of  pleasing  it, 
And  holding  it,  and  hushing  it  in  arms, 
Seem'd  dull  no  longer,  but  so  easy  now, 
That  Robin  wonder'd  how  he  came  to  deem 
Such  things  so  hard  to  learn.     The  bridge  once  pass'd, 
Pons  Asinorum,  as  I  said  at  school, 
Robin  cared  little  what  he  did  or  said. 
Beneath  the  very  eyes  of  Mistress  Bell 
And  Matthew  he  would  sport  the  child,  and  feel 
As  little  shame  as  any  new-yean'd  lamb  ; 
And  Matthew  and  the  Mistress  they  were  pleased  ; 
And  the  ice  thaw'd,  and  so  the  time  wore  on 
Till  Hairst  was  shorn  of  every  golden  lock. 

But  ah  !  big  Robin's  heart  was  ill  at  ease  : 
The  secret  snake  still  nestled  there,  and  soil'd 
His  very  tongue  with  venom.     Oftener, 
He  took  his  journeys  into  Edinglass  ; 
At  home,  he  only  brighten'd  when  his  friend 
Was  by  to  cheer  him  :  then,  and  only  then, 
He  sported ;  for  on  Sabbath  he  was  first 
At  kirk,  with  gloomy  face  and  soot-black  gear. 

But  when  the  Hairst  again  had  heavenward  flown, 
An  angel  leaving  gentle  gifts  behind, 
The  child  of  Matthew's  age  fell  sick,  and  all 


246    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

Was  silence  in  the  farm.     Then  doctors  came 

And  whisper'd  learndd  difference  to  the  ticks 

Of  learndd  watches  ;  and  a  yaumer  weak 

Was  heard  throughout  the  night.     Matthew  was  mad, 

And  Mistress  Bell  all  tears  ;  but  none  paid  heed 

To  Robin,  —  who  would  sit  beside  the  fire, 

Glower  at  the  coal,  and  heark  with  hungry  ear   ' 

To  those  that  tiptoe  stole  about  the  house 

And  whisper'd.     Once,  on  silent  shoeless  feet, 

He  crept  into  the  little  sleeping  room, 

And  saw  the  pale,  pale  babe  on  mother's  lap  : 

He  look'd  and  could  not  speak —  a  scalding  heat 

Grew  in  his  throat  —  he  stammer'd,  blush'd,  and  stared ; 

But  when  he  turn'd  away  his  face  was  white 

With  ghastly  pain  more  terrible  than  tears. 

What  felt  he,  thought  he  ?     Is  it  fair  to  guess  ? 

Perchance  his  thought  was  something  like  to  this  : 

"  If  wedded,  I  had  such  another  child 

As  lies  before  me,  and  the  child  should  die 

For  lack  of  such  a  love  as  I  could  give, 

Would  all  the  gold  and  silver  in  the  world 

Wipe  from  my  soul  that  piteous  baby-face  ? 

Would  twenty  thousand  prayers,  pray'd  day  and  night, 

Drown  in  the  hearing  of  the  Lord  my  God 

The  cry  my  babe  had  utter'd  as  it  died  ?  " 

And  when  the  little  one  was  fall'n  asleep, 
Drest  in  its  Sabbath  clothes  of  white  to  keep 
Eternities  of  Sabbath  in  the  grave, 
Old  Matthew,  groaning,  stump'd  about  the  house, 
Sour  Elder  though  he  was  ;  and  Mistress  Bell 
Wept  low  and  bitter,  with  an  eldritch  grief, 
To  which  the  woman's  quaint  uncomely  face 
Gave  double  solemness  ;  —  for  aye  she  kiss'd 


THE   TWO  BABES.  247 

The  frosty  lips,  and  aye  with  tender  care 
Sorted  the  clothes  upon  the  white,  white  limbs, 
To  make  them  look  the  sweeter,  weeping  sore. 
But  in  the  silent  hush  of  noon,  one  crept 
On  tiptoe  to  the  chamber  where  the  child 
Lay,  tiny,  breathless,  —  like  a  lily  flower 
Under  the  thinly  dropping  misty  dews 
Of  gloaming,  making  where  it  lay  in  shade 
A  faint  and  glow-worm  glamour  of  its  own. 

'T  was  Robin  ;  and  he  touch'd  the  tiny  hands, 
And  look'd  upon  the  baby  face  that  Death 
Had  fill'd  with  shadows  ancient  as  the  leaves 
That  shaded  Adam's  garden  ;  and  he  gazed 
As  one  fresh-landed  after  years  at  sea 
Might  gaze  upon  a  flower  reminding  him 

Of  meadows  where  he  gamboll'd  when  a  boy. 

^ 

He  shed  no  tears.     Around  his  eyes  there  swam 
Two  dewy  rings,  the  mist  of  tears  unshed, 
And  in  a  dream,  he  heark'd,  and  seem'd  to  hear 
An  infant  cry  from  far  away,  and  see 
Two  hands  uplifted  from  beneath  his  knees 
To  draw  him  down  and  kiss  him  on  the  mouth ; 
And  so  he  crept  away,  unseen,  unheard, 
Hating  the  silence  of  the  mourning  house, 
Longing  to  break  the  silence  with  a  shriek. 

Seven  days  the  child  had  slumber'd  under  grass, 
And  now  the  snow  was  falling  in  a  mist 
And  sowing  snow-drops  on  the  little  grave, 
When  Robin  rode  away  to  Edinglass 
On  business  of  his  own.     Four  days  he  stay'd  ; 
And  Matthew,  in  his  sorrow,  scarce  took  heed. 


248    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

•But  standing  at  the  threshold  of  the  farm, 
One  morning,  Matthew  saw  a  farmer's  gig, 
Drawn  by  a  piebald  pony  of  his  own, 
Come  trotting  up  the  road ;  and  in  it  sat 
A  woman  and  a  man.     Up  came  the  gig, 
And  halted  at  the  farm  ;  and  with  a  cry 
Of  wonder,  even  fear,  the  farmer  saw 
That  r>e  who  drove  was  Robin  Anderson, 
And  she  that  sat  beside  him  —  with  a  child 
Tuck'd  softly  underneath  her  Paisley  shawl  — 
His  sinful  daughter,  Maggie.     Both  were  pale, 
And  dropt  their  eyes  ;  but  Robin's  teeth  were  set 
Together.     Not  a  word  could  Matthew  speak, 
But  Robin  help'd  the  lassie  to  the  ground, 
And  led  her  to  the  door ;  and  Matthew  Bell 
Gave  way,  walk'd  ben  and  backwards,  stared  and  gasp'd, 
"  What 's  this  ?     What 's  this  ?     And  is  it  daft  ye  are  ? 
And  have  you  both  forgotten  ?  "  and  his  eyes 
Glitter'd  on  Maggie  with  a  ghastly  pain  ; 
But  Robin  took  him  by  the  shoulder-blade, 
And  push'd  him  ben  the  kitchen.    "  Wheesht  a  while  ! " 
Said  Robin  ;  "  wheesht  a  while,  and  hear  me  out : 
May  Clootie  grip  me,  Matthew,  I  have  been 
A  hypocrite  and  villain,  —  both  in  kirk 
And  here,  as  friend  and  servant,  in  the  farm. 
'T  was  me  brought  Meg  to  sorrow  and  to  shame  — 
But  here  I  stand  —  to  take  the  shame  myself — 
And  Meg 's  my  wife  !  "    The  Farmer  stared  and  gasp'd, 
Clutch'd  at  the  empty  air  with  eager  hand, 
And  spoke  not.     "  Father ! "  Maggie  moan'd  aloud ; 
At  that  he  eyed  her  with  a  hungry  look, 
As  he  would  wither  her,  and  answer'd  naught. 
Then  Robin  said,  "  I  take  the  shame  myself,  — 
And  Meg  's  my  honest  wife  ;  and  if  your  heart 


THE   TWO  BABES.  249 

Is  shut  against  us  both,  the  world  is  wide, 

And  we  can  go  away,  and  we  can  work  ; 

But  if  you  care  or  sorrow  for  the  lamb 

You  late  have  laid  beneath  the  kirkyard  sod, 

Forgive  poor  Maggie  for  the  bairnie's  sake :  — 

Come,  here  am  I,  to  take  the  shame  myself, 

And  Meg 's  my  wife  !  "     Then  Maggie  cried  again, 

"  Father  !  "  —  and  as  she  spake  drew  back  her  shawl, 

And  show'd  her  child  asleep  upon  her  breast, 

A  picture  of  the  other  child  asleep, 

And  as  she  spake,  it  waken'd,  gave  a  cry, 

And  kick'd  to  run  upon  its  rosy  feet. 

Then,  some  say  Matthew  thought  him  of  a  slip 
Himself  had  made  when  he  was  warm  and  young ; 
Some  that  he  knew  full  well  't  would  cost  him  dear 
To  part  with  Robin  ;  others,  that  the  wean, 
When  Maggie  set  him  down,  ran  toddling  o'er, 
Peep'd  in  the  Farmer's  face,  and  laugh'd  for  fun, 
Pull'd  at  his  watch-chain  boldly  with  a  cry, 
And  did  it  all.     But  when  the  Farmer's  wife 
Came  creeping  to  the  kitchen, 'with  a  scream 
Saw  Maggie,  lifted  up  her  hands  and  groan'd, 
Old  Matthew  sharply  turn'd  and  cut  her  short, 
And  never  looking  at  poor  Maggie's  face, 
Bade  Robin  seat  himself  and  talk  it  o'er. 

That 's  all,  sir !  —  for  a  child  might  guess  the  rest ; 
Matthew  came  round,  and  Mistress  Bell  was  forced 
To  give  a  doubtful  nod,  —  and  all  was  done. 
Robin  had  saved  and  scraped  ;  he  bought  a  piece 
Of  Matthew's  land,  where  Maggie  and  her  boy 
Were  settled  down  for  good.     That  tale  was  false 
Of  Maggie's  evil  life  in  Edinglass ! 


250   IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  1NVERBURN. 

But,  sir,  it  is  a  truth  that  Robin's  heart, 
In  spite  of  all  the  cunning  of  his  head, 
Gushing  the  milk  of  human  kindness  up, 
Drown'd  the  wee  deil,  Hypocrisy,  therein ; 
That  Robin's  comely  wife  and  Mistress  Bell 
Meet  every  Sabbath,  dying  to  be  friends, 
And  quarrel  every  Sabbath  day  for  good. 
But  ah  !  to  see  the  dreadful  change  that  years 
Have  wrought  in  Robin  !     He  is  well-to-do, 
Has  other  weans  beside  the  elbow-slip,  — 
That 's  nothing  singular !  —  But,  sir,  he 's  fat ! 
He  has  been  known  to  go  to  sleep  in  kirk  ! 
And  oft,  within  this  very  parlor  here, 
'T  would  give  your  heart  a  thrill  to  hear  him  sing 
"  Corn  Rigs,"  or  "  Tullochgorum !  " 

Such  a  change 

Can  stolen  sweets  and  fleshly  vanities, 
Children  and  women,  work  in  holy  men, 
E'en  clever  lads  like  Robin  !  .  .  Well,  I  've  done  — 
No  more,  unless  you  wish  to  see  me  fu' : 
I  've  far  to  walk,  —  and  't  is  the  Sabbath  day. 


THE    GREEN    GNOME. 

A    MELODY. 

RING,  sing !  ring,  sing  !  pleasant  Sabbath  bells  ! 
Chime,  rhyme  !  chime,  rhyme  !  thorough  dales  and 

dells ! 

Rhyme,  ring !  chime,  sing  !  pleasant  Sabbath  bells  ! 
Chime,  sing !  rhyme,  ring  !  over  fields  and  fells  ! 


THE   GREEN  GNOME.  251 

And  I  gallop'd  and  I  gallop'd  on  my  palfrey  white  as 

milk, 
My  robe  was  of  the  sea-green  woof,  my  serk  was  of  the 

silk; 

My  hair  was  golden  yellow,  and  it  floated  to  my  shoe, 
My  eyes  were  like  two  harebells  bathed  in  little  drops 

of  dew  ; 
My  palfrey,  never  stopping,   made  a  music  sweetly 

blent 
With  the  leaves  of  autumn  dropping  all  around  me  as 

I  went ; 
And  I  heard  the  bells,  grown  fainter,  far  behind  me  peal 

and  play, 
Fainter,  fainter,  fainter,  fainter,  till  they  seem'd  to  die 

away; 

And  beside  a  silver  runnel,  on  a  little  heap  of  sand, 
I  saw  the  green  Gnome  sitting,  with  his  cheek  upon  his 

hand  ; 
Then  he  started  up  to  see  me,  and  he  ran  with  cry  and 

bound, 
And  drew  me  from  my  palfrey  white,  and  set  me  on  the 

ground : 

0  crimson,  crimson  were  his  locks,  his  face  was  green 

to  see, 
But  he  cried,  "  O  light-hair'd  lassie,  you  are  bound  to 

marry  me  !  " 
He  claspt  me  round  the  middle  small,  he  kissed  me  on 

the  cheek, 
He  kissed  me  once,  he  kissed  me  twice  —  I  could  not 

stir  or  speak  ; 
He  kissed  me  twice,  he  kissed  me  thrice  —  but  when 

he  kissed  again, 

1  called  aloud  upon  the  name  of  Him  who  died  for 

men ! 


252    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

Ring,  sing !  ring,  sing  !  pleasant  Sabbath  bells  ! 
Chime,   rhyme  !   chime,  rhyme  !   thorough  dales   and 

dells ! 

Rhyme,  ring  !  chime,  sing  !  pleasant  Sabbath  bells  ! 
Chime,  sing !  rhyme,  ring !  over  fields  and  fells  ! 

O  faintly,  faintly,  faintly,  calling  men  and  maids  to  pray, 
So  faintly,  faintly,  faintly  rang  the  bells  afar  away ; 
And  as  I  named  the  Blessed  Name,  as  in  our  need  we 

can, 
The  ugly  green  green  Gnome  became  a  tall  and  comely 

man  ! 
His  hands  were  white,  his  beard  was  gold,  his  eyes  were 

black  as  sloes, 

His  tunic  was  of  scarlet  woof,  and  silken  were  his  hose  ; 
A  pensive  light  from  Faeryland  still  linger'd  on   his 

cheek, 
His  voice  was  like  the  running  brook,  when  he  began 

to  speak : 
"  O  you  have  cast  away  the  charm  my  step-dame  put 

on  me, 
Seven  years  I  dwelt  in  Faeryland,  and  you  have  set  me 

free! 
O  I  will  mount  thy  palfrey  white,  and  ride  to  kirk  with 

thee, 
And  by  those  little  dewy  eyes,  we  twain  will  wedded 

be!" 
Back  we  gallop'd,  never  stopping,  he  before  and   I 

behind, 
And  the  autumn  leaves  were  dropping,  red  and  yellow, 

in  the  wind, 
And  the  sun  was  shining  clearer,  and  my  heart  was 

high  and  proud, 
As  nearer,  nearer,  nearer,  rang  the  kirk-bells  sweet  and 

loud, 


HUGH  SUTHERLAND 'S  PANSIES.          253 

And  we  saw  the  kirk  before  us,  as  we  trotted  down  the 

fells, 
And  nearer,  clearer,  o'er  us,  rang  the  welcome  of  the 

bells ! 

Ring,  sing  !  ring,  sing !  pleasant  Sabbath  bells  ! 
Chime,  rhyme  !   chime,   rhyme  !  thorough  dales   and 

dells ! 

Rhyme,  ring  !  chime,  sing !  pleasant  Sabbath  bells  ! 
Chime,  sing  !  rhyme,  ring !  over  fields  and  fells ! 


HUGH   SUTHERLAND'S   PANSIES. 

A     FLOWER-PIECE. 

The  aged  Minister  of  Inverburn, 
A  heart  of  honey  under  features  stem, 
Leans  in  the  sunshine  on  the  garden-pale, 
Pensive,  yet  happy,  as  he  tells  this  tale,  — 
And  he  who  listens  sees  the  garden  lie 
Blue  as  a  little  patch  of  fallen  sky. 

"HPHE  lily  minds  me  of  a  maiden  brow," 

-*-     Hugh  Sutherland  would  say  ;  "  the  marigold 
Is  full  and  sunny  like  her  yellow  hair, 
The  full-blown  rose  her  lips  with  honey  tipt ; 
But  if  you  seek  a  likeness  to  her  eye, 
Go  to  the  pansy,  friend,  and  find  it  there  ! " 
"  Ay,  leeze  me  on  the  pansies ! "  Hugh  would  say,  — 
Hugh  Sutherland,  the  weaver,  —  he  who  dwelt 
Here  in  the  whitewashed  cot  you  fancy  so, 
Who  knew  the  learned  names  of  all  the  flowers, 


254    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

And  recognized  the  lily,  tho'  its  head 
Rose  in  a  ditch  of  dull  Latinity ! 

Pansies  ?    You  praise  the  ones  that  grow  to-day 
Here  in  the  garden  :  had  you  seen  the  place 
When  Sutherland  was  living !     Here  they  grew, 
From  blue  to  deeper  blue,  in  midst  of  each 
A  golden  dazzle  like  a  glimmering  star, 
Each  broader,  bigger  than  a  silver  crown  ; 
While  here  the  weaver  sat,  his  labor  done, 
Watching  his  azure  pets  and  rearing  them, 
Until  they  seem'd  to  know  his  step  and  touch, 
And  stir  beneath  his  smile  like  living  things  1 
The  very  sunshine  loved  them,  and  would  He 
Here  happy,  coming  early,  lingering  late, 
Because  they  were  so  fair. 

Hugh  Sutherland 

Was  country-bred  ;    I  knew  him  from  the  time 
When  on  a  bed  of  pain  he  lost  a  limb, 
And  rose  at  last,  a  lame  and  sickly  lad, 
Apprenticed  to  the  loom,  —  a  peevish  lad, 
Mooning  among  the  shadows  by  himself. 
Among  these  shadows,  with  the  privilege 
Of  one  who  loved,  his  flock,  I  sought  him  out, 
And  gently  as  I  could  I  won  his  heart ; 
And  then,  tho'  he  was  young  and  I  was  old, 
We  soon  grew  friends.     He  told  his  griefs  to  me, 
His  joys,  his  troubles,  and  I  help'd  him  on ; 
Yet  sought  in  vain  to  drive  away  the  cloud 
Deep  pain  had  left  upon  his  sickly  cheek, 
And  lure  him  from  the  shades  that  deepen'd  it. 
Then  Heaven  took  the  task  upon  itself 
And  sent  an  angel  down  among  the  flowers ! 


HUGH  SUTHERLAND'S  PANSIES.         255 

Almost  before  I  knew  the  work  was  done, 
I  found  him  settled  in  this  but  and  ben, 
Where,  with  an  eye  that  brighten'd,  he  had  found 
The  sunshine  loved  his  garden,  and  begun 
To  rear  his  pansies. 

Sutherland  was  poor, 

Rude,  and  untutor'd  ;  peevish,  too,  when  first 
The  angel  in  his  garden  found  him  out ; 
But  pansy-growing  made  his  heart  within 
Blow  fresh  and  fragrant.     When  he  came  to  share 
This  cottage  with  a  brother  of  the  craft, 
Only  some  poor  and  sickly  bunches  bloom'd, 
Vagrant,  though  fair,  among  the  garden-plots  ; 
And  idly,  carelessly,  he  water'd  these, 
Spread  them  and  train'd  them,  till  they  grew  and  grew 
In  size  and  beauty,  and  the  angel  thrust 
Its  bright  arms  upward  thro'  the  bright'ning  sod, 
And  clung  around  the  sickly  gardener's  heart. 
Then  Sutherland  grew  calmer,  and  the  cloud 
Was  fading  from  his  face.     Well,  by  and  by, 
The  country  people  saw  and  praised  the  flowers, 
And  what  at  first  had  been  an  idle  joy 
Became  a  sober,  serious  work  for  fame. 
Next,  being  won  to  send  a  bunch  for  show, 
He  won  a  prize,  —  a  sixth  or  seventh  rate  ; 
And  slowly  gath'ring  courage,  rested  not 
Till  he  had  won  the  highest  prize  of  all. 
Here  in  the  sunshine  and  the  shade  he  toil'd 
Early  and  late  in  joy,  and,  by  and  by, 
Rose  high  in  fame  ;  for  not  a  botanist, 
A  lover  of  the  flowers,  poor  man  or  rich, 
Came  to  the  village,  but  the  people  said, 
"  Go  down  the  lane  to  Weaver  Sutherland's, 
And  see  his  pansies  ! " 


256   IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

Thus  the  summers  pass'd, 
And  Sutherland  grew  gentler,  happier ; 
The  angel  God  had  sent  him  clung  to  him  : 
There  grew  a  rapturous  sadness  in  his  tone 
When  he  was  gladdest,  like  the  dewiness 
That  moistens  pansies  when  they  bloom  the  best ; 
And  in  his  face  there  dawn'd  a  gentle  light 
Like  that  which  softly  clings  about  a  flow'r, 
And  makes  you  love  it.     Yet  his  heart  was  glad, 
More  for  the  pansies'  sakes  than  for  his  own  : 
His  eye  was  like  a  father's,  moist  and  bright, 
When  they  were  praised  ;  and,  as  I  said,  they  seem'd 
To  make  themselves  as  beauteous  as  they  could, 
'Smiling  to  please  him.     Blessings  on  the  flowers  ! 
They  were  his  children  !     Father  never  loved 
His  little  darlings  more,  or  for  their  sakes 
Fretted  so  dumbly !     Father  never  bent 
More  tenderly  above  his  little  ones, 
In  the  still  watches  of  the  night,  when  sleep 
Breathes  balm  upon  their  eyelids  !     Night  and  day 
Poor  Hugh  was  careful  for  the  gentle  things 
Whose  presence  brought  a  sunshine  to  the  place 
Where  sickness  dwelt :  this  one  was  weak  and  small, 
And  needed  watching  like  a  sickly  child  ; 
This  one  so  beauteous,  that  it  shamed  its  mates 
And  made  him  angry  with  its  beauteousness. 
"  I  cannot  rest !  "  cried  Hughie  with  a  smile, 
"  I  scarcely  snatch  a  moment  to  myself, 
They  plague  me  so  !  "     Part  fun,  part  earnest,  this  : 
He  loved  the  pansies  better  than  he  knew. 
Ev'n  in  the  shadow  of  his  weaving  room 
They  haunted  him  and  brighten'd  on  his  soul : 
Daily  while  busy  working  at  the  loom 
The  humming-humming  seem'd  a  melody 


HUGH  SUTHERLAND'S  PANSIES.          257 

To  which  the  pansies  sweetly  grew  and  grew,  — 

A  leaf  unrolling  soft  to  every  note, 

A  change  of  colors  with  the  change  of  sound  ; 

And  walking  to  the  door  to  rest  himself, 

Still  with  the  humming-humming  in  his  ears, 

He  saw  the  flowers  and  heard  a  melody 

They  made  in  growing.     Pleasure  such  as  this, 

So  exquisite,  so  lonely,  might  have  pass'd 

Into  the  shadowy  restlessness  of  yore  ; 

But  wholesome  human  contact  saved  him  here, 

And  kept  him  fresh  and  meek.     The  people  came 

To  stir  him  with  their  praise,  and  he  would  show 

The  medals  and  the  prizes  he  had  got  — 

As  proud  and  happy  as  a  child  who  gains 

A  prize  in  school. 

The  angel  still  remain'd 
In  winter,  when  the  garden-plots  were  bare, 
And  deep  winds  piloted  the  shriven  snow : 
He  saw  its  gleaming  in  the  cottage  fire, 
While,  with  a  book  of  botany  on  his  knee, 
He  sat  and  hunger'd  for  the  breath  of  spring. 
The  angel  of  the  flowers  was  with  him  still ! 
Here  beds  of  roses  sweeten'd  all  the  page  ; 
Here  lilies  whiter  than  the  falling  snow 
Crept  gleaming  softly  from  the  printed  lines  ; 
Here  dewy  violets  sparkled  till  the  book 
Dazzled  his  eyes  with  rays  of  misty  blue  ; 
And  here,  amid  a  page  of  Latin  names, 
All  the  sweet  Scottish  flowers  together  grew 
With  fragrance  of  the  summer. 

Hugh  and  I 

Were  still  fast  friends,  and  still  I  help'd  him  on  ; 
17 


258    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

And  often  in  the  pleasant  summer-time, 
The  service  over,  on  the  Sabbath  day, 
I  join'd  him  in  the  garden,  where  we  sat 
And  chatted  in  the  sun.     But  all  at  once 
It  came  upon  me  that  the  gardener's  hand 
Had  grown  less  diligent ;  for  tho'  't  was  June 
The  garden  that  had  been  the  village  pride 
Look'd  but  the  shadow  of  its  former  self; 
And  ere  a  week  was  out  I  saw  in  church 
Two  samples  fairer  far  than  any  blown 
In  Hughie's  garden,  —  blooming  brighter  far 
In  sweeter  soil.     What  wonder  that  a  man, 
Loving  the  pansies  as  the  weaver  did  — 
A  skilful  judge,  moreover  —  should  admire 
Sweet  Mary  Moffat's  sparkling  pansy-eyes  ? 

The  truth  was  out.     The  weaver  play'd  the  game 
(I  christen'd  it  in  sport  that  very  day) 
Of  "  Love  among  the  Pansies  !  "     As  he  spoke, 
Telling  me  all,  I  saw  upon  his  face 
The  peevish  cloud  that  it  had  worn  in  youth  ; 
I  cheer'd  him  as  I  could,  and  bade  him  hope  : 
"  You  both  are  poor,  but,  Sutherland,  God's  flowers 
Are  poor  as  well !  "     He  brighten'd  as  I  spoke, 
And  answer'd,  "  It  is  settled  !  I  have  kept 
The  secret  till  the  last,  lest  '  nay '  should  come 
And  spoil  it  all ;  but '  ay '  has  come  instead, 
And  all  the  help  we  wait  for  is  your  own  !  " 

Even  here,  I  think,  his  angel  clung  to  him. 
The  fairies  of  his  garden  haunted  him 
With  similes  and  sympathies  that  made 
His  likes  and  dislikes,  though  he  knew  it  not. 
Beauty  he  loved  if  it  was  meek  and  mild, 


HUGH  SUTHERLAND'S  PANSIES.         259 

And  like  his  pansies  tender  ev'n  to  tears  ; 
And  so  he  chose  a  maiden  pure  and  low, 
Who,  like  his  garden  pets,  had  love  to  spare, 
Sunshine  to  cast  upon  his  pallid  cheek, 
And  yet  a  tender  clinging  thing,  too  weak 
To  bloom  uncared  for  and  unsmiled  upon. 

Soon  Sutherland  and  she  he  loved  were  one,  — 
And  bonnily  a  moon  of  honey  gleam'd 
At  night  among  the  flowers  !     Amid  the  spring 
That  follow'd,  blossom'd  with  the  other  buds 
A  tiny  maiden  with  her  mother's  eyes. 
The  little  garden  was  itself  again, 
The  sunshine  sparkled  on  the  azure  beds  ; 
The  angel  Heaven  had  sent  to  save  a  soul 
Stole  from  the  blooms  and  took  an  infant  shape  ; 
And  wild  with  pleasure,  seeing  how  the  flowers 
Had  given  her  their  choicest  lights  and  shades, 
The  father  bore  his  baby  to  the  font 
And  had  her  christen'd  PANSY. 

After  that, 

Poor  Hugh  was  happy  as  the  days  were  long, 
Divided  in  his  cares  for  all  his  pets, 
And  proudest  of  the  one  he  loved  the  best. 
The  summer  found  him  merry  as  a  king, 
Dancing  the  little  one  upon  his  knee 
Here  in  the  garden,  while  the  plots  around 
Gleam'd  in  the  sun,  and  seem'd  as  glad  as  he. 

But  moons  of  honey  wane,  and  summer  suns 
Of  wedlock  set  to  bring  the  autumn  in  ! 
Hugh  Sutherland,  with  wife  and  child  to  feed, 
Wrought  sore  to  gain  his  pittance  in  a  world 


260    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

His  pansies  made  so  fair.     Came  Poverty 
With  haggard  eyes  to  dwell  within  the  house ; 
When  first  she  saw  the  garden  she  was  glad, 
And,  seated  on  the  threshold,  smiled  and  span. 
But  times  grew  harder,  bread  was  scarce  as  gold, 
A  shadow  fell  on  Pansy  and  the  flowers  ; 
And  when  the  strife  was  sorest,  Hugh  received 
An  office  —  lighter  work  and  higher  pay  — 
To  take  a  foreman's  place  in  Edinglass. 
'T  was  hard,  'twas  hard  to  leave  the  little  place 
He  loved  so  dearly ;  but  the  weaver  look'd 
At  Mary,  saw  the  sorrow  in  her  face, 
And  gave  consent,  —  happy  at  heart  to  think 
His  dear  ones  would  not  want.     To  Edinglass 
They  went  and  settled.     Thro'  the  winter  hours 
Bravely  the  weaver  toil'd  ;  his  wife  and  child 
Were  happy,  he  was  heartsome,  —  tho'  his  taste 
Was  grassy  lowlands  and  the  caller  air. 

The  cottage  here  remain'd  untenanted, 
The  angel  of  the  flowers  forsook  the  place, 
The  sunshine  faded,  and  the  pansies  died. 

Two  summers  pass'd  ;  and  still  in  Edinglass 
The  weaver  toil'd,  and  ever  when  I  went 
Into  the  city,  to  his  house  I  hied,  — 
A  welcome  guest     Now  first,  I  saw  a  change 
Had  come  to  Sutherland  :  for  he  was  pale 
And  peevish,  had  a  venom  on  his  tongue, 
And  hung  the  under-lip  like  one  that  doubts. 
Part  of  the  truth  I  heard,  and  part  I  saw, — 
But  knew  too  late,  when  all  the  ill  was  done  ! 
At  first,  poor  Hugh  had  shrunk  from  making  friends, 
And  pored  among  his  books  of  botany, 


HUGH  SUTHERLAND'S  PANSIES.          261 

And  later,  in  the  dull  dark  nights  he  sat, 
A  dismal  book  upon  his  knee,  and  read : 
A  book  no  longer  full  of  leaves  and  flowers, 
That  glimmer'd  on  the  soul's  sweet  consciousness, 
Yet  seem'd  to  fill  the  eye,  —  a  dismal  book,  — 
Big-sounding  Latin,  English  dull  and  dark, 
And  not  a  breath  of  summer  in  it  all. 
The  sunshine  perish'd  in  the  city's  smoke, 
The  pansies  grew  no  more  to  comfort  him, 
And  he  began  to  spend  his  nights  with  those 
Who  waste  their  substance  in  the  public-house  : 
The  flowers  had  lent  a  sparkle  to  his  talk, 
Which  pleased  the  muddled  wits  of  idle  men  ; 
Sought  after,  treated,  liked  by  one  and  all, 
He  took  to  drinking ;  and  at  last  lay  down 
Stupid  and  senseless  on  a  rainy  night, 
And  ere  he  waken'd  caught  the  flaming  fire, 
Which  gleams  to  white-heat  on  the  face  and  burns 
Clear  crimson  in  the  lungs. 

But  it  was  long, 

Ere  any  knew  poor  Hughie's  plight ;  and,  ere 
He  saw  his  danger,  on  the  mother's  breast 
Lay  Pansy  withering,  —  tho'  the  dewy  breath 
Of  spring  was  floating  like  a  misty  rain 
Down  from  the  mountains.     Then  the  tiny  flower 
Folded  its  leaves  in  silence,  and  the  sleep 
That  dwells  in  winter  on  the  pansy-beds 
Fell  on  the  weaver's  house.     At  that  sad  hour 
I  enter'd,  scarcely  welcomed  with  a  word 
Of  greeting  :  by  the  hearth  the  woman  sat 
Weeping  full  sore,  her  apron  o'er  a  face 
Haggard  with  midnight  watching,  while  the  man 
Cover'd  his  bloodshot  eyes  and  cursed  himself. 


262    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

Then  leaning  o'er,  my  hand  on  his,  I  said : 

"  She  could  not  bear  the  smoke  of  cities,  Hugh  ! 

God  to  His  Garden  has  transplanted  her, 

Where  summer  dwells  forever  and  the  air 

Is  fresh  and  pure  !  "     But  Hughie  did  not  speak  ; 

I  saw  full  plainly  that  he  blamed  himself ; 

And  ere  the  day  was  out  he  bent  above 

His  little  sleeping  flower,  and  wept,  and  said : 

"  Ay,  sir !  she  wither'd,  wither'd  like  the  rest, 

Neglected  !  "  and  I  saw  his  heart  was  full. 

& 

When  Pansy  slept  beneath  the  churchyard  grass 
Poor  Hughie's  angel  had  return'd  to  Heaven, 
And  all  his  heart  was  dark.     His  ways  grew  strange, 
Peevish,  and  sullen  ;  often  he  would  sit 
And  drink  alone  ;  the  wife  and  he  grew  cold, 
And  harsh  to  one  another ;  till  at  last 
A  stern  physician  put  an  end  to  all, 
And  told  him  he  must  die. 

No  bitter  cry, 

No  sound  of  wailing  rose  within  the  house 
After  the  Doctor  spoke,  but  Mary  mourn'd 
In  silence,  Hughie  smoked  his  pipe  and  set 
His  teeth  together,  at  the  ingleside. 
Days  pass'd  ;  the  only  token  of  a  change 
Was  Hughie's  face,  —  the  peevish  cloud  of  care 
Seem'd  melting  to  a  tender  gentleness. 
After  a  time,  the  wife  forgot  her  grief, 
Or  could  at  times  forget  it,  in  the  care 
Her  husband's  sickness  brought.     I  went  to  them 
As  often  as  I  could,  for  Sutherland 
Was  dear  to  me,  and  dearer  for  his  sin. 
Weak  as  he  was  he  did  his  best  to  toil, 
But  it  was  weary  work  !     By  slow  degrees, 


HUGH  SUTHERLAND'S  PANSIES.          263 

When  May  was  breathing  on  the  sickly  bunch 

Of  mignonette  upon  the  window-sill, 

I  saw  his  smile  was  softly  wearing  round 

To  what  it  used  to  be,  when  here  he  sat 

Rearing  his  flowers  ;  altho'  his  brow  at  times 

Grew  cloudy,  and  he  gnaw'd  his  under  lip. 

At  last  I  found  him  seated  by  the  hearth, 

Trying  to  read  :  I  led  his  mind  to  themes 

Of  old  langsyne,  and  saw  his  eyes  grow  dim. 

"  O  sir,"  he  cried,  "  I  cannot,  cannot  rest ! 

Something  I  long  for,  and  I  know  not  what, 

Torments  me  night  and  day  !  "     I  saw  it  all, 

And  sparkling  with  the  brilliance  of  the  thought, 

Look'd  in  his  eyes  and  caught  his  hand,  and  cried, 

"  Hugh,  it 's  the  pansies  !     Spring  has  come  again, 

The  sunshine  breathes  its  gold  upon  the  air 

And  threads  it  through  the  petals  of  the  flowers, 

Yet  here  you  linger  in  the  dark  !  "     I  ceased 

And  watch'd  him.     Then  he  trembled  as  he  said, 

"  I  see  it  now,  for  as  I  read  the  book 

The  lines  and  words,  the  Latin  seem'd  to  bud, 

And  they  peep'd  thro'."     He  smiled,  like  one  ashamed, 

Adding  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  long  to  see 

The  pansies  ere  I  die  !  " 

What  heart  of  stone 

Could  throb  on  coldly,  sir,  at  words  like  those  ? 
Not  mine,  not  mine  !     Within  a  week  poor  Hugh 
Had  left  the  smoke  of  Edinglass  behind, 
And  felt  the  wind  that  runs  along  the  lanes, 
Spreading  a  carpet  of  the  grass  and  flowers 
For  June  the  sunny-hair'd  to  walk  upon. 
In  the  old  cottage  here  he  dwelt  again : 
The  place  was  wilder  than  it  once  had  been, 


264    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  1NVERBURN. 

But  buds  were  blowing  green  around  about, 
And  with  the  glad  return  of  Sutherland 
The  angel  of  the  flowers  came  back  again. 
The  end  was  near,  and  Hugh  was  wearied  out, 
And  like  a  flower  was  closing  up  his  leaves 
Under  the  dropping  of  the  gloaming  dews. 

And  daily,  in  the  summer  afternoon, 
I  found  him  seated  on  the  threshold  there, 
Watching  his  flowers,  and  all  the  place,  I  thought, 
Brighten'd  when  he  was  nigh.     Now  first  I  talk'd 
Of  heavenly  hopes  unto  him,  and  I  knew 
The  angel  help'd  me.     On  the  day  he  died 
The  pain  had  put  its  shadow  on  his  face, 
And  words  of  doubt  were  on  his  tremulous  lips. 
"  Ah,  Hughie,  life  is  easy ! "  I  exclaim'd, 
"  Easier,  better  than  we  know  ourselves  : 
'T  is  pansy-growing  on  a  mighty  scale, 
And  God  above  us  is  the  gardener. 
The  fairest  win  the  prizes,  that  is  just, 
But  all  the  flowers  are  dear  to  God  the  Lord : 
The  Gardener  loves  them  all,  He  loves  them  all !  " 
He  saw  the  sunshine  on  the  pansy-beds 
And  brighten'd.     Then  by  slow  degrees  he  grew 
Cheerful  and  meek  as  dying  man  could  be, 
And  as  I  spoke  there  came  from  far-away 
The  faint  sweet  melody  of  Sabbath  bells. 
And  "Hugh,"  I  said,  "if  God  the  Gardener 
Neglected  those  he  rears  as  you  have  done 
Your  pansies  and  your  Pansy,  it  were  ill 
For  we  who  blossom  in  His  garden.     Night 
And  morning  He  is  busy  at  His  work. 
He  smiles  to  give  us  sunshine,  and  we  live  : 
He  stoops  to  pluck  us  softly,  and  our  hearts 


HUGH  SUTHERLAND'S  PANSIES.          265 

Tremble  to  see  the  darkness,  knowing  not 

It  is  the  shadow  He,  in  stooping,  casts. 

He  pluckt  your  Pansy  so,  and  it  was  well. 

But,  Hugh,  though  some  be  beautiful  and  grand, 

Sime  sickly,  like  yourself,  and  mean  and  poor, 

He  loves  them  all,  the  Gardener  loves  them  all !  " 

Then  later,  when  no  longer  he  could  sit 

Out  on  the  threshold,  and  the  end  was  near, 

We  set  a  plate  of  pansies  by  his  bed 

To  cheer  him.     "  He  is  coming  near,"  I  said, 

"  Great  is  the  garden,  but  the  Gardener 

Is  coming  to  the  corner  where  you  bloom 

So  sickly !  "     And  he  smiled,  and  moan'd,  "  I  hear ! " 

And  sank  upon  his  pillow  wearily. 

His  hollow  eyes  no  longer  bore  the  light, 

The  darkness  gather'd  round  him  as  I  said, 

"  The  Gardener  is  standing  at  your  side, 

His  shade  is  on  you  and  you  cannot  see  : 

0  Lord,  that  lovest  both  the  strong  and  weak, 
Pluck  him  and  wear  him  !  "     Even  as  I  pray'd, 

1  felt  the  shadow  there  and  hid  my  face  ; 

But  when  I  look'd  again  the  flower  was  pluck'd, 
The  shadow  gone  :  the  sunshine  thro'  the  blind 
Gleam'd  faintly,  and  the  widow'd  woman  wept. 


266    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  STEPMOTHER. 


AS  I  lay  asleep,  as  I  lay  asleep, 
**•  Under  the  grass  as  I  lay  so  deep, 
As  I  lay  asleep  in  my  cotton  serk 
Under  the  shade  of  Our  Lady's  kirk, 
I  waken 'd  up  in  the  dead  of  night, 
I  waken'd  up  in  my  death-serk  white, 
And  I  heard  a  cry  from  far  away, 
And  I  knew  the  voice  of  my  daughter  May : 
"  Mother,  mother,  come  hither  to  me  ! 
Mother,  mother,  come  hither  and  see  ! 
Mother,  mother,  mother  dear, 
Another  mother  is  sitting  here  : 
My  body  is  bruised,  and  in  pain  I  cry, 
On  straw  in  the  dark  afraid  I  lie, 
I  thirst  and  hunger  for  drink  and  meat, 
And  mother,  mother,  to  sleep  were  sweet ! " 
I  heard  the  cry,  though  my  grave  was  deep, 
And  awoke  from  sleep,  and  awoke  from  sleep. 


II. 

I  awoke  from  sleep,  I  awoke  from  sleep, 
Up  I  rose  from  my  grave  so  deep ! 
The  earth  was  black,  but  overhead 
The  stars  were  yellow,  the  moon  was  red ; 
And  I  walk'd  along  all  white  and  thin, 


THE  LEGEND   OF  THE  STEPMOTHER,    267 

And  lifted  the  latch  and  enter'd  in, 

And  reach'd  the  chamber  as  dark  as  night, 

And  though  it  was  dark  my  face  was  white : 

"  Mother,  mother,  I  look  on  thee  ! 

Mother,  mother,  you  frighten  me ! 

For  your  cheeks  are  thin  and  your  hair  is  gray ! " 

But  I  smiled,  and  kiss'd  her  fears  away, 

I  smooth'd  her  hair  and  I  sang  a  song, 

And  on  my  knee  I  rock'd  her  long  : 

"  O  mother,  mother,  sing  low  to  me  ; 

I  am  sleepy  now,  and  I  cannot  see  ! " 

I  kiss'd  her,  but  I  could  not  weep, 

And  she  went  to  sleep,  she  went  to  sleep. 


in. 

As  we  lay  asleep,  as  we  lay  asleep, 

My  May  and  I,  in  our  grave  so  deep, 

As  we  lay  asleep  in  the  midnight  mirk, 

Under  the  shade  of  Our  Lady's  kirk, 

I  waken'd  up  in  the  dead  of  night, 

Though  May  my  daughter  lay  warm  and  white, 

And  I  heard  the  cry  of  a  little  one, 

And  I  knew  't  was  the  voice  of  Hugh  my  son  : 

"  Mother,  mother,  come  hither  to  me  ! 

Mother,  mother,  come  hither  and  see  ! 

Mother,  mother,  mother  dear, 

Another  mother  is  sitting  here  : 

My  body  is  bruised  and  my  heart  is  sad, 

But  I  speak  my  mind  and  call  them  bad  ; 

I  thirst  and  hunger  night  and  day, 

And  were  I  strong  I  would  fly  away  !  " 

I  heard  the  cry,  though  my  grave  was  deep, 

And  awoke  from  sleep,  and  awoke  from  sleep  ! 


268    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 
IV. 

I  awoke  from  sleep,  I  awoke  from  sleep, 
Up  I  rose  from  my  grave  so  deep, 
The  earth  was  black,  but  overhead 
The  stars  were  yellow,  the  moon  was  red ; 
And  I  walk'd  along  all  white  and  thin, 
And  lifted  the  latch  and  enter'd  in. 
"  Mother,  mother,  and  art  thou  here  ? 
I  know  your  face,  and  I  feel  no  fear ; 
Raise  me,  mother,  and  kiss  my  cheek, 
For  oh  I  am  weary  and  sore  and  weak." 
I  smooth'd  his  hair  with  a  mother's  joy, 
And  he  laugh'd  aloud,  my  own  brave  boy  ; 
I  raised  and  held  him  on  my  breast, 
Sang  him  a  song,  and  bade  him  rest. 
"  Mother,  mother,  sing  low  to  me  ; 
I  am  sleepy  now  and  I  cannot  see  !  " 
I  kiss'd  him,  and  I  could  not  weep, 
As  he  went  to  sleep,  as  he  went  to  sleep. 

v. 

As  I  lay  asleep,  as  I  lay  asleep, 
With  my  girl  and  boy  in  my  grave  so  deep, 
As  I  lay  asleep,  I  awoke  in  fear, 
Awoke,  but  awoke  not  my  children  dear, 
And  heard  a  cry  so  low  and  weak 
From  a  tiny  voice  that  could  not  speak ; 
I  heard  the  cry  of  a  little  one, 
My  bairn  that  could  neither  talk  nor  run, 
My  little,  little  one,  uncaress'd, 
Starving  for  lack  of  the  milk  of  the  breast ; 
And  I  rose  from  sleep  and  enter'd  in, 
And  found  my  little  one  pinch 'd  and  thin, 
And  croon'd  a  song  and  hush'd  its  moan, 


THE  LEGEND   OF  THE  STEPMOTHER.   269 

And  put  its  lips  to  my  white  breastbone ; 
And  the  red,  red  moon  that  lit  the  place 
Went  white  to  look  at  the  little  face, 
And  I  kiss'd  and  kiss'd,  and  I  could  not  weep, 
As  it  went  to  sleep,  as  it  went  to  sleep. 

VI. 

As  it  lay  asleep,  as  it  lay  asleep, 

I  set  it  down  in  the  darkness  deep, 

Smooth'd  its  limbs  and  laid  it  out, 

And  drew  the  curtains  around  about ; 

Then  into  the  dark,  dark  room  I  hied 

Where  he  lay  awake  at  the  woman's  side, 

And  though  the  chamber  was  black  as  night, 

He  saw  my  face,  for  it  was  so  white  ; 

I  gazed  in  his  eyes,  and  he  shriek'd  in  pain, 

And  I  knew  he  would  never  sleep  again, 

And  back  to  my  grave  went  silently, 

And  soon  my  baby  was  brought  to  me ; 

My  son  and  daughter  beside  me  rest, 

My  little  baby  is  on  my  breast ; 

Our  bed  is  warm  and  our  grave  is  deep, 

But  he  cannot  sleep,  he  cannot  sleep  ! 


270    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 


THE  WIDOW  MYSIE. 

AN   IDYL   OF   LOVE   AND   WHISKEY. 

Tom  Love,  a  man  "prepared  for  friend  or  foe, 
Whisker'd,  well-featured,  tight  from  top  to  toe." 

O  WIDOW  MYSIE,  smiling,  soft,  and  sweet ! 
O  Mysie,  buxom  as  a  sheaf  of  wheat ! 
O  Mysie,  Widow  Mysie,  late  Monroe, 
Foul  fall  the  traitor-face  that  served  me  so ! 

0  Mysie  Love,  a  second  time  a  bride, 

1  pity  him  who  tosses  at  your  side,  — 

Who  took,  by  honeyed  smiles  and  speech  misled, 
A  beauteous  bush  of  brambles  to  his  bed ! 

You  saw  her  at  the  ploughing  match,  you  ken, 
Ogling  the  whiskey  and  the  handsome  men  : 
The  smiling  woman  in  the  Paisley  shawl, 
Plump  as  a  partridge,  and  as  broad  as  tall, 
With  ribbons,  bows,  and  jewels  fair  to  see, 
Bursting  to  blossom  like  an  apple-tree, 
And  every  ribbon,  bow,  and  jewel  fine 
Perfumed  like  apple  blossoms  dipt  in  wine. 
Ay,  that  was  Mysie,  —  now  two  score  and  ten, 
Now  Madam  Love  of  Bungo  in  the  Glen ! 
Ay,  that  was  Mysie,  tho'  her  looks  no  more 
Dazzle  with  beams  of  brightness  as  of  yore  !  — 
The  tiny  imps  that  nested  in  her  eyes, 
Winning  alike  the  wanton  and  the  wise, 
Have  ta'en  the  flame  that  made  my  heart  forlorn 
Back  to  the  nameless  place  where  they  were  born. 


THE    WIDOW  MYSIE.  2^l 

0  years  roll  on,  and  fair  things  fade  and  pine  !  — 
Twelve  sowings  since  and  I  was  twenty-nine  : 
With  ploughman's  coat  on  back,  and  plough  in  hand, 

1  wrought  at  Bungo  on  my  father's  land, 
And  all  the  neighbor-lassies,  stale  or  fair, 
Tried  hard  to  net  my  father's  son  and  heir. 
My  heart  was  lightsome,  cares  I  had  but  few, 

I  climb'd  the  mountains,  drank  the  mountain  dew, 
Could  sit  a  mare  as  mettlesome  as  fire, 
Could  put  the  stone  with  any  in  the  shire, 
Had  been  to  college,  and  had  learn'd  to  dance, 
Could  blether  thro'  my  nose  like  folks  in  France, 
And  stood  erect,  prepared  for  friend  or  foe, 
Whisker'd,  well-featured,  tight  from  top  to  toe. 

"  A  marriageable  man,  for  every  claim 
Of  lawful  wedlock  fitted,"  you  exclaim  ? 
But,  sir,  of  all  that  men  enjoy  or  treasure, 
Wedlock,  I  fancied,  was  the  driest  pleasure. 
True  ;  seated  at  some  pretty  peasant's  side, 
Under  the  slanted  sheaves  I  loved  to  hide, 
Lilting  the  burthen  of  a  Scottish  tune, 
To  sit,  and  kiss  perchance,  and  watch  the  moon, 
Pillow'd  on  breasts  like  beds  of  lilies  white 
Heaving  and  falling  in  the  pale  moonlight ; 
But  rather  would  have  sat  with  crimson  face 
Upon  the  cutty-stool  with  Jean  or  Grace, 
Than  buy  in  kirk  a  partner  with  the  power 
To  turn  the  mountain  dew  of  Freedom  sour. 

I  loved  a  comely  face,  as  I  have  said, 

But  sharply  watch'd  the  maids  who  wish'd  to  wed, — 

I  knew  their  arts,  was  not  so  cheaply  won, 

They  loved  my  father's  Siller,  not  his  Son. 


272    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

Still,  laughing  in  my  sleeve,  I  here  and  there 
Took  liberties  allow'd  my  father's  heir, 
Stole  kisses  from  the  comeliest  of  the  crew, 
And  smiled  upon  the  virgin  nettles  too. 
So  might  the  game  have  daunder'd  on  till  this, 
And  lasted  till  my  father  went  to  bliss,  — 
But  Widow  Mysie  came,  as  sly  as  sin, 
And  settled  in  the  "  William  Wallace  "  Inn. 

The  Inn  had  gone  to  rack  and  loss  complete 

Since  Simpson  drown'd  himself  in  whiskey  neat ; 

And  poor  Jock  Watt  who  follow'd  in  his  shoes, 

Back'd  by  the  sourest,  gumliest  of  shrews, 

(The  whiskey  vile,  the  water  never  hot,  , 

The  very  sugar  sour'd  by  Mistress  Watt,) 

Had  found  the  gossips,  grumbling,  groaning,  stray 

To  Sandie  Kirkson's,  half  a  mile  away. 

But  hey  !  at  Widow  Mysie's  rosy  face, 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirits  of  the  place, 

The  fire  blazed  high,  the  shining  pewter  smiled, 

The  glasses  glitter'd  bright,  the  water  boil'd, 

Grand  was  the  whiskey,  Highland  born  and  fine, 

And  Mysie,  Widow  Mysie,  was  divine  ! 

O  sweet  was  Widow  Mysie,  sweet  and  sleek ! 
The  peach's  blush  and  down  were  on  her  cheek, 
And  there  were  dimples  in  her  tender  chin 
For  Cupids  small  to  hunt  for  honey  in  ; 
Dark-glossy  were  her  ringlets,  each  a  prize, 
And  wicked,  wicked  were  her  beaded  eyes  ; 
Plump  was  her  figure,  rounded  and  complete, 
And  tender  were  her  tiny  tinkling  feet ! 
All  this  was  nothing  to  the  warmth  and  light 
That  seem'd  to  hover  o'er  her  day  and  night ;  — 


THE    WIDOW  MYSIE.  273 

Where'er  she  moved,  she  seem'd  to  soothe  and  please 
With  honeyed  murmurs  as  of  honeyed  bees  ; 
Her  small  plump  hands  on  public  missions  flew 
Like  snow-white  doves  that  flying  crow  and  coo  ; 
Her  feet  fell  patter,  cheep,  like  little  mice ; 
Her  breath  was  soft  with  sugar  and  with  spice  ; 
And  when  her  finger  —  so !  —  your  hand  would  press, 
You  tingled  to  the  toes  with  loveliness, 
While  her  dark  eyes,  with  lessening  zone  in  zone, 
Flasht  sunlight  on  the  mirrors  of  your  own, 
Dazzling  your  spirit  with  a  wicked  sense 
That  seem'd  more  innocent  than  innocence  ! 

Sure  one  so  beauteous  and  so  sweet  had  graced 
And  cheer'd  the  scene,  where'er  by  Fortune  placed  ; 
But  with  a  background  of  the  pewter  bright, 
Whereon  the  fire  cast  gleams  of  rosy  light, 
With  jingling  glasses  round  her,  and  a  scent 
Of  spice  and  lemon-peel  where'er  she  went, 
What  wonder  she  should  to  the  cronies  seem 
An  angel  in  a  cloud  of  toddy  steam  ? 
What  wonder,  while  I  sipt  my  glass  one  day, 
She,  and  the  whiskey,  stole  my  heart  away  ? 

She  was  not  loath  !  —  for,  while  her  comely  face 

Shone  full  on  other  haunters  of  the  place, 

From  me  she  turn'd  her  head  and  peep'd  full  sly 

With  just  the  corner  of  her  roguish  eye, 

And  blush'd  so  bright  my  toddy  seem'd  to  glow 

Beneath  the  rosy  blush  and  sweeter  grow ; 

And  once,  at  my  request,  she  took  a  sip, 

And  honeyed  all  the  liquor  with  her  lip. 

"  Take  heed  !  for  Widow  Mysie's  game  is  plain," 

The  gossips  cried,  but  warn'd  me  all  in  vain : 

18 


274    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

Like  sugar  melting  at  the  toddy's  kiss, 
My  very  caution  was  dissolved  in  bliss, 
Fear  died  forever  with  a  mocking  laugh, 
And  Mysie's  kisses  made  his  epitaph. 

Kisses  ?     Ay,  faith,  they  follow'd  score  on  score, 

After  the  first  I  stole  behind  the  door, 

And  linger'd  softly  on  these  lips  of  mine 

Like  Massic  whiskey  drunk  by  bards  divine. 

But  O  the  glow,  the  rapture,  and  the  glee  ! 

That  night  she  let  me  draw  her  on  my  knee,  — 

When  bliss  thrill'd  from  her  to  my  finger-tips, 

Then  eddied  wildly  to  my  burning  lips, 

From  which  she  drank  it  back  with  kisses  fain, 

Then  blush'd  and  glow'd  and  breathed  it  back  again, - 

Till,  madden'd  with  the  ecstasy  divine, 

I  clasp'd  her  close  and  craved  her  to  be  mine, 

And  thrilling,  panting,  struggling  up  to  fly, 

She  breathed  a  spicy  "Yes  "  with  glistening  eye, 

And  while  my  veins  grew  bright,  my  heart  went  wild, 

Fell  like  a  sunbeam  on  my  heart,  and  smiled ! 

The  deed  thus  done,  I  hied  me  home,  you  say, 
And  rued  my  folly  when  I  woke  next  day  ? 
Nay !  all  my  business  was  to  crave  and  cry 
That  Heaven  would  haste  the  holy  knot  to  tie, 
Though  "  Mysie  lass,"  I  said,  "  my  gold  and  gear 
Are  small,  and  will  be  small  for  many  a  year, 
Since  father  is  but  fifty  years  and  three, 
And  tough  as  cobbler's  wax,  though  spare  and  wee  !  " 
"  Ah,  Tarn,"  she  sigh'd,  "  there  's  nothing  there  to  rue,  - 
The  gold,  the  gear,  that  Mysie  wants  is  you  !  " 
And  brightly  clad,  with  kisses  thrilling  through  me, 
Clung  like  a  branch  of  trembling  blossoms  to  me. 


THE    WIDOW  MYSIE.  275 

I  found  my  father  making  up  his  books, 

With  yellow  eyes  and  penny-hunting  looks. 

"  Father,"  I  said,  "  I  'm  sick  of  single  life, 

And  will,  if  you  are  willing,  take  a  wife." 

"  Humph,"  snapt  my  father,  "(six  and  four  are  ten, 

And  ten  are  twenty.) —  Marry  ?  who  ?  and  when  ?  " 

"  Mistress  Monroe,"  I  said,  "  that  keeps  the  inn." 

At  that  he  shrugg'd  his  shoulders  with  a  grin  : 

"  I  guess'd  as  much  !  the  tale  has  gone  the  round  ! 

Ye  might  have  stay'd  till  I  was  underground  ! 

But  please  yourself,  —  I  've  nothing  to  refuse, 

Choose  where  you  will,  —  you  're  old  enough  to  choose  ; 

But  mind,"  he  added,  blinking  yellow  eye, 

"  I  '11  handle  my  own  guineas  till  I  die ! 

Frankly  I  own,  you  might  have  chosen  worse, 

Since  you  have  little  siller  in  your  purse  : 

The  Inn  is  thriving,  if  report  be  true, 

And  Widow  Mysie  has  enough  for  two  ! " 


"  And  if  we  wait  till  he  has  gone  his  way, 

Why,  Mysie,  I  '11  be  bald,  and  you  '11  be  gray," 

I  said  to  Mysie,  laughing  at  her  side. 

"  O,  let  him  keep  his  riches,"  she  replied, 

"  He  's  right !  there  's  plenty  here  for  you  and  I ! 

May  he  live  long  ;  and  happy  may  he  die  ! " 

"  O  Mysie,  you  're  an  angel,"  I  return'd, 

With  eye  that  glisten'd  dewily  and  yearn'd. 

Then  running  off  she  mix'd,  with  tender  glee, 

A  glass  of  comfort,  —  sat  her  on  my  knee. 

"  Come,  Tarn  ! "  she  cried,  "  who  cares  a  fig  for  wealth  ? 

Ay,  let  him  keep  it  all,  and  here  's  his  health ! " 

And  added,  shining  brightly  on  my  breast, 

"  Ah,  Tarn,  the  siller  's  worthless,  —  Love  is  best    v 


276    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

O  Widow  Mysie,  wert  thou  first  sincere, 

When  tender  accents  trembled  on  mine  ear, 

Like  bees  that  o'er  a  flower  will  float  and  fleet, 

And  ere  they  light  make  murmurs  honey-sweet  ? 

Or  was  the  light  that  render'd  me  unwise, 

Guile's  —  the  sweet  Quaker  with  the  downcast  eyes  ? 

0  Widow  Mysie,  not  at  once  are  we 
Taught  the  false  scripture  of  Hypocrisy ; 
Even  pink  Selfishness  has  times,  I  know, 
When  thro'  his  fat  a  patriot's  feelings  glow ; 
Falsehood  first  learns  her  nature  with  a  sigh, 
And  puts  on  mourning  for  her  first-born  Lie. 

Days  pass'd ;  and  I  began,  to  my  amaze, 

To  see  a  colder  light  in  Mysie's  gaze ; 

Once  when,  with  arm  about  her  softly  wound, 

1  snatch'd  a  kiss,  she  snapt  and  flusht  and  frown'd ; 
But  oftener  her  face  a  shadow  wore, 

Such  as  had  never  darken'd  it  before  ; 

I  spoke  of  this,  I  begg'd  her  to  explain,  — 

She  tapt  my  cheek,  and  smiled,  and  mused  again. 

But,  in  the  middle  of  my  love-alarm, 

The  Leech's  watch  went  "tick"  at  Bungo  Farm ; 

My  father  sicken'd,  and  his  features  cold 

Retain'd  the  hue,  without  the  gleam,  of  gold. 

Then  Mysie  soften'd,  sadden'd,  and  would  speak 
Of  father's  sickness  with  a  dewy  cheek ; 
When  to  the  Inn  I  wander'd,  unto  me, 
Lightly,  as  if  she  walk'd  on  wool,  came  she, 
And  "  Is  he  better  ?  "  "  Is  he  changed  at  all  ?  " 
And  "  Heaven  help  him  !  "  tenderly  would  call. 
"  So  old,  —  so  ill,  —  untended  and  alone  ! 
He  is  your  father,  Tom,  and  seems  my  own  ! " 


THE    WIDOW  MYSIE.  277 

And  musing  stood,  one  little  hand  of  snow 

Nestling  and  fluttering  on  my  shoulder  —  so  ! 

But  father  sicken'd  on,  and  then  one  night, 

When  we  were  sitting  in  the  ingle-light, 

"  O  Tom,"  she  cried,  u  I  have  it !  —  I  should  ne'er 

Forgive  myself  for  staying  idly  here, 

While  he,  your  father,  lack'd  in  his  distress 

The  love,  the  care,  a  daughter's  hands  possess  : 

He  knows  our  troth,  —  he  will  not  say  me  nay  ; 

But  let  me  nurse  him  as  a  daughter  may, 

And  he  may  live,  for  darker  cases  mend, 

To  bless  us  and  to  join  us  in  the  end !  " 

"  But,  Mysie  —  "     "  Not  a  word,  the  thing  is  plann'd," 

She  said,  and  stopt  my  mouth  with  warm  white  hand. 

She  went  with  gentle  eyes  that  very  night, 

Stole  to  the  chamber  like  a  moonbeam  white ; 

My  father  scowl'd  at  first,  but  soon  was  won,  — 

The  keep  was  carried,  and  the  deed  was  done. 

O  Heaven  !  in  what  strange  Enchanter's  den, 
Learnt  she  the  spells  wherewith  she  conquer'd  men  ? 
When  to  that  chamber  she  had  won  her  way, 
The  old  man's  cheek  grew  brighter  every  day ; 
She  smooth'd  the  pillows  underneath  his  head, 
She  brought  sweet  music  roundabout  his  bed, 
She  made  the  very  mustard-blisters  glow 
With  fire  as  soft  as  youthful  lovers  know, 
The  very  physic  bottles  lost  their  gloom, 
And  seem'd  like  little  fairies  in  the  room, 
The  very  physic,  charm'd  by  her,  grew  fine, 
Rhubarb  was  honey,  castor-oil  was  wine. 
Half  darkly,  dimly,  yet  with  secret  flame 
That  titillated  up  and  down  his  frame, 
The  grim  old  man  lay  still,  with  hungry  eye 


278   IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

Watching  her  thro'  the  room  on  tiptoe  fly  ;  — 

She  turn'd  her  back,  —  his  cheek  grew  dull  and  dim  ! 

She  turn'd  her  face,  —  its  sunshine  fell  on  him  ! 

Better  and  better  every  day  grew  he, 

Colder  and  colder  grew  his  nurse  to  me, 

Till  up  he  leapt,  with  fresher  life  astir, 

And  only  sank  again  —  to  kneel  to  her. 

"  Mysie  !  "  I  cried,  with  flushing  face,  too  late 

Stung  by  the  pois'nous  things  whose  names  I  hate, 

Which  in  so  many  household  fires  flit  free, 

The  salamanders,  Doubt  and  Jealousy,  — 

"  Mysie  !  "  —  and  then,  in  accents  fierce  and  bold, 

Demanded  why  her  looks  had  grown  so  cold  ? 

She  trembled,  flush'd,  a  tear  was  in  her  eye, 

She  dropt  her  gaze,  and  heaved  a  balmy  sigh, 

Then  spoke  with  tender  pauses  low  and  sad : 

Had  I  a  heart  ?     I  frankly  own'd  I  had. 

Could  I  without  a  conscience-qualm  behold 

My  white-hair'd  father,  weak,  untended,  old, 

Who  had  so  very  short  a  time  to  live, 

Reft  of  the  peace  a  woman's  hands  can  give  ? 

"  Mysie  !  "  I  shriek'd,  with  heart  that  seem'd  to  rend, 

With  glaring  eyes,  and  every  hair  on  end. 

Clasping  her  little  hands,  "  O  Tarn,"  she  cried, 

"  But  for  my  help  your  father  would  have  died  ; 

Bliss  !  to  have  saved  your  filial  heart  that  sorrow  ! 

But  for  my  help,  why,  he  may  die  to-morrow. 

Go,  Tom  !  — this  weak  warm  heart  I  cannot  trust 

To  utter  more  —  be  generous  !  be  just ! 

I  long  have  felt —  I  say  it  in  humility  — 

A  sort  of —  kind  of —  incompatibility  ! 

Go,  Tarn  !     Be  happy  !     Bless  you  !    Wed  another  !  — 

Ah,  I  shall  ever  love  you  —  as  a  mother  !  " 


THE  MINISl^ER  AND    THE  ELFIN.        279 

Sir,  so  it  was.     Stunn'd,  thunder-stricken,  wild, 
I  raved,  while  father  trembled,  Mysie  smiled ; 
O'er  all  the  country-side  the  scandal  rang, 
And  ere  I  knew,  the  bells  began  to  clang ;  — 
And  shutting  eyes  and  stopping  ears,  as  red 
As  ricks  on  fire,  I  blushing  turn'd  and  fled. 
Twelve  years  have  pass'd  since  I  escaped  the  net, 
And  father,  tough  as  leather,  lingers  yet, 
A  gray  mare  rules,  the  laugh  has  come  to  me, 
I  sport,  and  thank  my  stars  that  I  am  free  ! 
If  Mysie  likes  her  bargain  ill  or  well, 
Only  the  Deil,  who  won  it  her,  can  tell ; 
But  she,  who  could  so  well  his  arts  pursue, 
May  learn  a  trick  to  cheat  her  Teacher  too. 


THE   MINISTER  AND   THE  ELFIN. 


WHO  among  ye  will  win  for  me 

The  soul  of  the  Preacher  of  Woodilee  ? 

For  he  prays,  he  preaches,  he  labors  sore, 

He  cheats  me  alike  of  rich  and  poor, 

And  his  cheek  is  pale  with  a  thought  divine, 

And  I  would,  I  would,  that  he  were  mine  ! " 

"  O  surely  I  will  win  for  thee 

The  Minister  of  Woodilee  ; 

Round  and  around  the  elfin  tree, 

Where  we  are  fleeting  in  company, 

The  Minister  of  Woodilee, 

Laughing  aloud,  shall  dance  with  me  !  " 


280   IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 


II. 

The  Minister  rode  in  the  white  moonshine, 

His  face  was  pale  with  his  thought  divine, 

And  he  saw  beneath  the  greenwood  tree 

As  sweet  a  maiden  as  well  could  be  : 

My  hair  of  gold  to  my  feet  fell  bright, 

My  eyes  were  blue,  and  my  brow  was  white, 

My  limbs  were  fresh  as  the  curds  of  lime 

Mingled  with  drops  of  the  red  red  wine, 

And  they  shone  thro'  my  dress  o'  the  silk  with  gleam 

Like  a  lover's  face  thro'  a  thin  light  dream  ; 

But  the  sickness  of  death  was  in  mine  ee, 

And  my  face  was  pallid  and  sad  to  see, 

And  I  moan'd  aloud  as  he  came  near, 

And  I  heard  him  mutter  a  prayer  in  fear ! 


in. 

But  the  Minister,  when  he  look'd  on  me, 

Leapt  down  and  set  my  head  on  his  knee, 

Wet  my  lips  with  the  running  stream, 

And  I  open'd  my  eyes  as  in  a  dream, 

I  open'd  my  eyes  and  look'd  on  him, 

And  his  head  whirl'd  round  and  his  cheek  grew  dim, 

I  kiss'd  him  twice,  I  kiss'd  him  thrice, 

Till  he  kiss'd  again  with  lips  of  ice, 

Till  he  kiss'd  again  with  lips  of  stone, 

And  clasp'd  me  close  to  his  cold  breastbone  ; 

And  tho'  his  face  was  weary  and  sad, 

He  laugh'd  aloud  and  seem'd  mad,  seem'd  mad. 

Then  up  to  my  feet  I  leapt  in  glee, 

And  round  and  round  and  around  went  we, 

Under  the  moonlit  greenwood  tree. 


THE  MINISTER  AND   THE  ELFIN.        281 


IV. 

He  leapt  on  his  steed  and  home  rode  he, 

The  Minister  of  Woodilee  ; 

And  when  at  the  door  of  the  manse  he  rein'd, 

With  blood  his  lips  were  damp'd  and  stain'd, 

And  he  pray'd  a  prayer  for  his  shame  and  sin, 

And  dropt  a  tear  as  he  enter'd  in, 

But  the  smile  divine  from  his  face  had  fled, 

When  he  laid  him  down  on  his  dying  bed. 

v. 

"  O  thanks,  for  thou  hast  won  for  me 
The  Minister  of  Woodilee, 
Who  nevermore,  O  nevermore, 
Shall  preach  and  pray  and  labor  sore, 
And  cheat  me  alike  of  rich  and  poor, 
For  the  smile  divine  no  more  wears  he,  — 
Hasten  and  bring  his  soul  to  me  !  " 

VI. 

O,  off  I  ran  his  soul  to  win, 
And  the  gray  gray  manse  I  enter'd  in, 
And  I  saw  him  lying  on  his  bed, 
With  salt  and  candle  at  his  head  ; 
But  when  he  turn'd  him  weary  and  weak, 
A  smile  and  a  tear  were  on  his  cheek, 
And  he  took  my  hand  and  kiss'd  it  thrice 
Tho'  his  lips  were  clammy  cold  as  ice. 
"  O  wherefore,  wherefore  kiss  thou  sae 
One  who  has  stolen  thy  life  away  ?  " 
Then  over  his  face  sae  pale  with  pain 
The  thought  divine  came  back  again, 


282    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

And  "  I  love  thee  more  for  the  shame,"  he  said, 

"  I  love  thee  more  on  my  dying  bed, 

And  I  cannot,  cannot  love  thee  less, 

Tho'  my  heart  is  wae  for  its  wickedness  ; 

I  love  thee  better,  I  love  thee  best, 

Sweet  Spirit  that  errest  and  wanderest ; 

Colder  and  colder  my  blood  doth  run, 

I  pray  for  thee,  pray  for  thee,  little  one  !  " 

Then  I  heard  the  bell  for  the  dying  toll, 

And  I  reach'd  out  hands  to  seize  his  soul, 

But  I  trembled  and  shriek'd  to  see  as  he  died 

An  angel  in  white  at  his  bedside, 

And  I  fled  away  to  the  greenwood  tree, 

Where  the  elves  were  fleeting  in  company, 

And  I  hate  my  immortality, 

And  't  were  better  to  be  a  man  and  dee ! 


THE  LEGEND   OF  THE  LITTLE  FAY. 

A     MELODY. 
THE   LITTLE  FAY. 

YOU  are  the  gray  gray  Troll, 
With  the  great  green  eyes, 
But  I  love  you,  gray  gray  Troll,  — 

You  are  so  wise  ! 
Tell  me,  this  sweet  morn, 

Tell  me  all  you  know,  — 
Tell  me.  was  I  born  ? 
Tell  me,  did  I  grow  ? 


THE  LEGEND   OF  THE  LITTLE  FAY.     283 

Fell  I  from  the  blue, 

Like  a  drop  of  rain, 
Then,  as  violets  do, 

Blossom'd  up  again  ? 
Why  am  I  so  frail  ? 

Why  am  I  so  small  ? 
Why  am  I  so  pale  ? 

Why  am  I  at  all  ? 
Tell  me  !  —  while  I  lie 

On  this  lily-bed, 
While  the  dragon-fly, 
With  his  round  red  Eye, 

Floats  above  my  head. 

THE   TROLL. 

When  the  summer  day 
Makes  the  greenwood  gay 

And  the  blue  sky  clear, 
What  do  you  do  and  say  ? 

What  do  you  see  and  hear  ? 

THE  LITTLE   FAY. 

When  the  summer  day 
Makes  the  greenwood  gay 

And  the  blue  sky  clear, 
I  roam  wherever  I  may, 
And  I  feel  no  fear  ; 
I  rise  from  my  bed  of  an  acorn-cup, 

And  shake  the  dew  from  my  hair  and  eyes, 
Then  I  stoop  to  a  dew-drop  and  drink  it  up, 

And  it  seems  to  strengthen  my  wings  to  rise ; 
Then  I  fly  !  I  fly  ! 
I  rise  up  high, 

High  as  the  greenwood  tree, 
The  humming-bee  and  the  butterfly, 


284    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

And  the  moth  with  its  broad  brown  wings,  go  by, 
While  down  on  the  leaf  of  an  oak  I  lie, 

Curl'd  up  where  none  can  see ! 
But  I  seem  to  hear  strange  voices  call, 
Like  the  hum  of  a  distant  waterfall, 

Sighing  and  saddening  me  ; 
And  still  I  lie  and  hearken  there, 
Swinging  and  floating  high  in  air, 
And  the  voices  make  me  sad  and  pale, 

Till  the  sunbeams  go, 
And  the  large  green  fly  with  his  silken  sail 

Floats  by  me  slow, 

And  the  leaves  grow  dark  and  are  lightly  roll'd, 
The  soft  boughs  flutter,  the  dews  fall  cold, 

And  the  shadows  grow, 

Before  I  know ! 

And  down  I  fall  to  the  side  of  the  stream, 
And  with  palpitating  silver  gleam 

I  see  it  flow, 

As  the  moon  comes  out  above  the  place, 
And  I  stoop  to  drink,  and  smile  to  trace 
The  water-kelpie's  cold  strange  face 
Gleaming  below. 

THE   TROLL. 

When  the  night  is  blue, 
And  the  moon  shines  thro' 

The  boughs  of  the  greenwood  tree, 
What  do  you  say  and  do  ? 

What  do  you  hear  and  see  ? 

THE  LITTLE   FAY. 

When  the  night  is  blue, 
And  the  moon  shines  thro' 


THE  LEGEND   OF  THE  LITTLE  FAY.     285 

The  boughs  of  the  greenwood  tree, 
Round  my  acorn-cup  the  dew 

Sparkles  silverlee ! 
And  I  lie  so  still,  while  up  in  the  air 

Open  the  little  dewy  eyes, 
And  the  moon  goes  by  with  her  yellow  hair, 

The  kelpie  hides  his  face  and  cries  ; 
And  I  lie  !  I  lie  ! 
With  little  eye 

That  twinkles  near  the  ground, 
And  the  dismal  bat  goes  screaming  by, 
And  from  far  away  comes  the  corn-craik's  cry, 
And  I  seem  to  hear  a  human  sigh 

And  a  human  kiss's  sound  ; 
And  I  know  not  why,  but  unaware 
Fold  little  hands  and  pray  a  prayer, 

And  all  things  sigh  around  : 
The  moon  grows  white,  the  green  leaves  moan, 
The  brown  moth  flits  with  a  weary  drone, 
The  elfins  cry  as  they  flit  and  fleet, 

And  the  small  stars  sadder  seem  ; 
Then  I  pray  the  more,  and  my  lips  are  sweet 

With  some  sweet  theme  ! 
I  press  my  lips  together  tight, 
And  pray  till  my  face  grows  wan  and  white, 

And  the  dim  stars  beam 

As  in  a  dream ; 

And  I  pray,  though  I  know  not  why  I  pray, 
I  pray,  though  I  know  not  what  I  say, 

And  the  moon-rays  round  me  stream, 
The  greenwood  shakes,  the  wild  wind  speaks, 
A  fiend  slides  by  with  bloodless  cheeks, 
The  wild-hair'd  kelpie  waves  arms  and  shrieks 

With  teeth  that  gleam ! 


a86    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 
THE   TROLL. 

Then  why  art  them  so  frail  ? 

Why  art  thou  so  small  ? 
Why  art  thou  so  pale  ? 

Why  art  thou  at  all  ? 
Shall  I  tell  thee,  little  soul  ? 

Shall  I  still  thy  cries  ? 

THE  LITTLE  FAY. 

O  tell  me,  gray  gray  Troll,  — 
You  are  so  wise  ! 

THE   TROLL. 

With  a  soul  love-laden, 
On  a  summer  day, 
A  mortal  maiden 

Gave  her  heart  away ; 
For  the  sun  was  glowing 

Under  greenwood  tree, 
The  flowers  were  blowing, 
And  the  stream  was  flowing, 
And,  coming,  going, 

Humm'd  the  honey-bee  ; 
And  all  sweet  sounds  and  all  sweet  things, 
Whatever  shines,  whatever  sings, 

From  the  bees  whose  horns  were  chiming 

In  the  pleasant  forest  bowers, 
To  the  little  fairies  rhyming 

In  the  sugar 'd  cells  of  flowers, 
Said,  "  Love  him  !  love  him  !  love  him  ! " 

And  she  blush'd  and  sigh'd  to  hear, 
And  murmur'd,  "  Yes,  I  love  him  ! 
I  cannot  choose  but  love  him  ! 
He  is  so  dear  !  " 


THE  LEGEND   OF  THE  LITTLE  FAY.    287 

THE  LITTLE  FAY. 

O  see,  thou  gray  gray  Troll, 

The  stream  whirls  round  and  sighs  ! 
Around  thy  brow,  gray  Troll, 

Float  moths  and  butterflies  ! 
Afar  strange  echoes  roll, 

The  kelpie  starts  and  cries  ! 
The  great  fly  looks  at  me 

With  his  round  red  eyes, 
And  the  wasp  and  honey-bee 

Above  me  fall  and  rise,  — 
O  pause  not,  gray  gray  Troll,  — 

You  are  so  wise  ! 

THE   TROLL. 

With  a  soul  love-laden, 

On  a  summer  night, 
The  mortal  maiden 

Lay  pale  and  white  ; 
And  the  white  moon,  flying 

O'er  the  boughs,  could  see 
The  maiden  lying, 
Sighing  and  dying, 

Under  greenwood  tree  ; 
And  her  lover  stoop'd  in  the  pale  moonshine, 
And  his  eye  was  cold  as  the  salt  sea-brine, 
And  there  came  a  sound 
From  underground, 

And  a  voice  that  said  :  "  She  is  mine  !  she  is  mine  !  " 
Then  the  maiden,  clinging 

To  her  lover's  side, 
Kiss'd  him  softly, 

And  smiled  and  died. 


a88    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

But  a  gentle  Fairy, 

Who  saw  it  all, 
Turn'd  the  kiss  she  gave  him 

To  a  Spirit  small, 
To  a  gentle  Spirit 

With  a  pale  sad  face, 
To  a  gentle  Spirit 

To  guard  this  place  ; 
And  the  little  Spirit, 

In  sun  and  shade, 
Haunted  the  greenwood, 

And  sigh'd  and  pray'd  : 
Praying,  praying, 

Upon  this  spot, 
It  knew  not  wherefore, 

For  it  knew  not  what. 
And  all  sweet  sounds  and  all  sweet  things, 
Whatever  shines,  whatever  sings, 

From  the  bees  whose  hours  were  chiming 

In  the  pleasant  forest-bowers, 
To  the  little  fairies  rhyming 

In  the  sugar'd  cells  of  flowers, 
Have  heard  the  Spirit  praying 

And  join'd  its  gentle  cry, 
Have  caught  the  Spirit's  sorrow 

And  pray'd  they  knew  not  why ; 
And  all  sweet  sounds  and  all  sweet  things, 
Whatever  shines,  whatever  sings, 
In  the  end  shall  follow 

The  little  Fay, 
As  she  floateth  upward, 
And  floating  upward 

Shall  sing  and  say : 
"  When  the  sun  was  shining 


THE  LEGEND   OF  THE  LITTLE  FAY.    289 

On  the  summer  day, 
When  the  mortal  maiden 

Gave  her  heart  away, 
We  whisper'd,  whisper'd, 

In  the  maiden's  ear, 
Saying,  '  Love  him  !  love  him  ! 

And  have  no  fear  ! ' 
And  she  said,  '  I  love  him  ! 

He  is  so  dear  ! '  " 
Then  the  Greater  Spirit 

On  His  throne  shall  hear. 

THE   LITTLE  FAY. 

You  have  told  me  why 

I  am  frail  and  small ! 
You  have  told  me  why 

I  am  here  at  all ! 
I  pay  thy  wisdom 

With  kisses  three,  — 
Stronger,  longer, 

My  prayers  shall  be. 
I  love  you,  gray  gray  Troll,  — 

With  the  great  green  eyes, 
I  love  you,  gray  gray  Troll, 

You  are  so  wise. 


290    IDYLS  AA?D  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 


VILLAGE    VOICES. 

I. 
JANUARY    WIND. 

i. 
rT^HE  wind,  wife,  the  wind ;   how  it  blows,  how  it 

blows  ; 
It  grips  the  latch,  it  shakes  the  house,  it  whistles,  it 

screams,  it  crows, 
It  dashes  on  the  window-pane,  then  rushes  off  with  a 

cry, 
Ye  scarce  can  hear  your  own  loud  voice,  it  clatters  so 

loud  and  high  ; 

And  far  away  upon  the  sea  it  floats  with  thunder-call, 
The  wind,  wife,  the  wind,  wife  ;  the  wind  that  did  it  all ! 

ii. 

The  wind,  wife,  the  wind  ;  how  it  blew,  how  it  blew  ; 
The  very  night  our  boy  was  born,  it  whistled,  it  scream'd, 

it  crew ; 
And  while  you  moan'd  upon  your  bed,  and  your  heart 

was  dark  with  fright, 
I  swear  it  mingled  with  the  soul  of  the  boy  you  bore 

that  night ; 
It  scarcely  seems  a  winter  since,  and  the  wind  is  with 

us  still, — 
The  wind,  wife ;  the  wind,  wife  ;  the  wind  that  blew  us 

ill! 


VILLAGE    VOICES.  291 

III. 

The  wind,  wife,  the  wind  ;  how  it  blows,  how  it  blows  ! 
It  changes,  shifts,  without  a  cause,  it  ceases,  it  comes 

and  goes  ; 
And  David  ever  was  the  same,  wayward,  and  wild,  and 

bold,— 
For  wilful  lad  will  have  his  way,  and  the  wind  no  hand 

can  hold ; 
But  ah !  the  wind,  the  changeful  wind,  was  more  in  the 

blame  than  he  ; 
The  wind,  wife  j  the  wind,  wife,  that  blew  him  out  to 

sea ! 

IV. 

The  wind,  wife,  the  wind  ;  now  't  is  still,  now  't  is  still ; 
And  as  we  sit  I  seem  to  feel  the  silence  shiver  and 

thrill, 
'T  was  thus  the  night  he  went  away,  and  we  sat  in 

silence  here, 
We  listen'd  to  our  beating  hearts,  and  all  was  weary 

and  drear; 
We  long'd  to  hear  the  wind  again,  and  to  hold  our 

David's  hand, — 
The  wind,  wife  ;  the  wind,  wife,  that  blew  him  out  from 

land! 

v. 

The  wind,  wife,  the  wind  ;  up  again,  up  again  ! 

It  blew  our  David  round  the  world,  yet  shriek'd  at  our 

window-pane  ; 
And  ever  since  that  time,  old  wife,  in  rain,  and  in  sun, 

and  in  snow, 
Whether  I  work  or  weary  here,  I  hear  it  whistle  and 

blow, 


292    IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

It  moans  around,  it  groans   around,  it  wanders  with 

scream  and  cry  — 
The  wind,  wife  ;  the  wind,  wife  ;  may  it  blow  him  home 

to  die ! 


II. 
APRIL    RAIN. 

I. 

SHOWERS,  showers,  naught  but  showers,  and  it  wants  a 

week  of  May, 
Flowers,  flowers,  summer  flowers,  are  hid  in  the  green 

and  the  gray ; 

Green  buds  and  gray  shoots  cover  their  sparkling  gear, 
They  stir  beneath,  they  long  to  burst,  for  the  May  is  so 

near,  so  near, — 

While  I  spin  and  I  spin,  and  the  fingers  of  the  Rain 
Fall  patter,  pitter,  patter,  on  the  pane. 

n. 

Showers,  showers,  silver  showers,  murmur  and  softly 

sing, 
Flowers,  flowers,   summer  flowers,   are  swelling  and 

hearkening  ; 

It  wants  a  week  of  May,  when  John  and  I  will  be  one, 
The  flowers  will  burst,  the  birds  will  sing,  as  we  walk 

to  church  in  the  sun, 

So  patter  goes  my  heart,  in  a  kind  of  pleasant  pain, 
To  the  patter,  pitter,  patter  of  the  Rain. 


VILLAGE    VOICES.  293 

III. 
SUMMER    MOON. 


SUMMER  Moon,  O  Summer  Moon,  across  the  west  you 

fly, 

You  gaze  on  half  the  earth  at  once  with  sweet  and 

steadfast  eye ; 
Summer  Moon,  O  Summer  Moon,  were  I  aloft  with 

thee, 
I  know  that  I  could  look  upon  my  boy  who  sails  at  sea. 


n. 

Summer  Moon,  O  Summer  Moon,  you  throw  your  silver 

showers 
Upon  a  glassy  sea  that  lies  round  shores  of  fruit  and 

flowers, 
The  blue  tide  trembles  on  the  shore,  with  murmuring 

as  of  bees, 
And  the  shadow  of  the  ship  lies  dark  near  shades  of 

orange  trees. 

in. 

Summer  Moon,  O  Summer  Moon,  now  wind  and  storm 

have  fled, 
Your  light  creeps  thro'  a  cabin-pane  and  lights  a  flaxen 

head: 

He  tosses  with  his  lips  apart,  lies  smiling  in  your  gleam, 
For  underneath  his  folded  lids  you  put  a  gentle  dream. 


294   IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 

IV. 

Summer  Moon,  O  Summer  Moon,  his  head  is  on  his 

arm, 
He  stirs  with  balmy  breath  and  sees  the  moonlight  on 

the  Farm, 
He  stirs  and  breathes  his  mother's  name,  he  smiles  and 

sees  once  more 
The  Moon  above,  the  fields  below,  the  shadow  at  the 

door. 

v. 

Summer  Moon,  O  Summer  Moon,  across  the  lift  you  go, 
Far  south  you  gaze  and  see  my  Boy,  where  groves  of 

orange  grow ! 
Summer  Moon,  O  Summer  Moon,  you  turn  again  to 

me, 
And  seem  to  have  the  smile  of  him  who  sleeps  upon  the 

sea. 


IV. 
DECEMBER    SNOW. 

I. 

THE  cold,  cold  snow !  the  snow  that  lies  so  white  ! 
The  moon  and  stars  are  hidden,  there  is  neither  warmth 

nor  light : 
I  wonder,  wife,  —  I  wonder,  wife,  —  where  Jeanie  lies 

this  night  ? 

II. 

'T  is  cold,  cold,  cold,  since  Jeanie  went  away, 
The  world  has  changed,  I  sit  and  wait,  and  listen  night 
and  day, 


VILLAGE    VOICES.  29$ 

The  house  is  silent,  silent,  and  my  hair  has  grown  so 

gray: 
'T  is  cold,  cold,  cold,  wife,  since  Jeanie  went  away. 

in. 

And  tick !  tick  !  tick !  the  clock  goes  evermore, 
It  chills  me,  wife,  —  it  seems  to  keep  our  child  beyond 

the  door ; 
I  watch  the  firelight  shadows  as  they  float  upon  the 

floor,  * 
And  tick  !  tick !  tick !  wife,  the  clock  goes  evermore ! 

IV. 

'T  is  cold,  cold,  cold!  —  'twere  better  she  were  dead, 
Not  that  I  heed  the  Minister,  and  the  bitter  things  he 

said,  — 
But  to  think  my  lassie  cannot  find  a  place  to  lay  her 

head : 
'T  is  cold,  cold,  cold,  wife,  —  better  she  were  dead ! 

v. 

The  cold,  cold  snow !  the  snow  that  lies  so  white ! 
Beneath  the  snow  her  little  one  is  hidden  out  of  sight, 
But  up  above,  the  wind  blows  keen,  there  's  neither 

warmth  nor  light, 
I  wonder,  wife,  —  I  wonder,  wife,  —  where  Jeanie  lies 

this  night! 


NOTE. 


THE  preceding  poems,  both  the  Idyls  and  the  Legends, 
are  more  or  less  dramatic,  —  in  so  far  as  the  writer,  in 
no  instance  save  the  "Preamble,"  speaks  in  his  own  per- 
son. This  leads  to  a  variety  of  style,  which  may  or  may  not 
be  a  recommendation.  All  the  scenes  are  Scottish ;  but  the 
speakers,  with  one  exception,  are  educated  men,  who,  al- 
though they  sometimes  have  recourse  to  Scottish  phrases 
and  idioms,  do  not  habitually  employ  the  vernacular.  The 
Weaver,  who  tells  the  tale  of  "  Poet  Andrew,"  uses  Scot- 
tish words  liberally,  but  it  has  not  always  been  thought 
necessary  to  represent  his  actual  pronunciation.  To  print 
"auld"  for  "old,"  "cauld"  for  "cold,"  "  o'"  for  "of," 
and  the  like,  is  to  confuse,  not  vivify  or  verify,  the  text ;  and, 
indeed,  the  actual  pronunciation  is  arbitrary  and  contradic- 
tory in  the  extreme.  The  author  subjoins  a  brief  glossary  of 
the  few  words  and  phrases  with  which  English  readers  can 
have  any  difficulty. 


Aiblins,  perhaps. 

Bailie,  a  civic  dignitary  correspond- 
ing to  the  English  alderman. 

Bannock,  a  thick  oaten  cake. 

Bicld,  small  rustic  building. 

Biggin,  ditto. 

Birk,  birch-tree. 

Bonnet,  a  man's  cap. 

Breeks,  breeches. 

Brawly,  finely,  excellently. 

But  and  ben,  the  front  and  back 
rooms  of  a  house  of  two  apart- 
ments. 

Gallant,  lad. 

Caller,  fresh,  cool 

Ckittering,  chattering  as  with  cold. 


Clishmaclaver,  a  tedious,  fidgety 
person. 

Clootie,  Satanus. 

Corn-craik,  the  bird  known  in  Eng- 
land as  the  land-rail. 

Cowrie,  to  stoop  down. 

Crack,  to  talk. 

Daft,  mad,  silly. 

Dee,  to  die. 

Deil,  devil. 

Dominie,  schoolmaster. 

Doo,  dove. 

Douk,  to  dip  down,  as  a  bather  in 
water. 

Een,  eyes. 

Eldritch,  weird. 


NOTE. 


297 


Eerie,  dismal. 

Fash,  to  trouble. 

Feckless,  silly. 

Flyte,  to  scold. 

Fu',  full,  used  in  the  sense  of  being 

full  of  liquor,  —  intoxicated. 
Gowan,  daisy. 
Gloaming',  twilight. 
Gumlie,  gloomy. 
Harrie,  to  rob. 
HalZanstone,  threshold-stone. 
Hairst,  harvest. 
Howdie,  midwife. 
Ilka,  each. 
Ken,  know. 
Keek,  to  peep. 
Kirk,  church. 

Lyart,  speckled  black  and  white. 
Laverock,  lark.      • 
L earless,  unlearned. 
Lum,  chimney. 
Mannock,  little  man. 


Minnie,  mother. 

Mixtie-niaxtie,  confusedly  mixed, 

Mucklc,  much. 

Old-farrant,  old-fashioned. 

Poortith,  poverty. 

Reek,  smoke. 

Sark,  serk,  shirt. 

Sough,  a  word  expressing  the  sound 

of  the  wind  through  trees. 
Speir,  to  ask,  inquire. 
Sneesh,  snuff. 

Sweetie-shop,  sweetmeat-shop. 
Tocher,  dowry. 

Toyte,  to  rock  from  side  to  side. 
Unco,  very. 
Wame,  stomach. 
Wean,  child. 
Whiles,  sometimes  ;  whiles,  whiles 

—  sometimes,  at  others. 
Whuzzle-whazzle,  word  expressing 

the  sound  of  looms. 


A    LONDON    IDYL. 


HEY,  rain,  rain,  rain  ! 
It  patters  down  the  glass  and  on  the  sill, 
And  splashes  underneath,  along  the  lane,  — 
Then  gives  a  kind  of  scream,  and  lies  quite  still 
One  likes  to  hear  it,  tho',  when  one  is  ill : 
Rain,  rain,  rain,  rain  ! 

Hey,  how  it  pours  and  pours  ! 
Rain,  rain,  rain,  rain  !  — 

A  weary  day  for  poor  girls  out-o'-doors  ! 

I 

n. 

Ah,  don't !  that  kind  of  comfort  makes  me  cry, 
And,  Parson,  since  I  'm  bad,  I  want  to  die. 
The  roaring  of  the  street, 
The  tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  of  feet, 
The  sobbing,  —  sobbing  of  the  weary  Rain, 
Have  gone  into  the  aching  of  my  brain. 
I  'm  lost  and  weak,  and  can  no  longer  bear 
To  wander  like  a  shadow  here  and  there,  — 

As  useless  as  a  stone,  —  tired  out,  —  and  sick  ! 

So  that  they  put  me  down  to  slumber  quick, 
It  does  not  matter  where. 
No  one  will  miss  me  ;  all  will  hurry  by, 

And  never  cast  a  thought  on  one  so  low  ; 

Fine  gentles  miss  fine  ladies  when  they  go, 
But  folk  care  naught  for  such  a  thing  as  I. 


300  A   LONDON  IDYL. 

III. 

'Tis  bad,  I  know,  to  talk  like  that,  — too  bad! 
Joe,  tho'  he  's  often  hard,  is  strong  and  true  — 
[  Ah,  Joe  meant  well !]  and  there  's  the  Baby  too  ! 

But  I  'm  so  tired  and  sad. 

I  'm  glad  it  was  a  boy,  sir,  very  glad. 

A  man  can  fight  along,  can  say  his  say, 

Is  not  look'd  down  upon,  holds  up  his  head, 
And  at  a  push  can  always  earn  his  bread  : 

Men  have  the  best  of  it,  in  many  a  way. 

But  ah  !  't  is  hard  indeed  for  girls  to  keep 
Decent  and  honest,  tramping  in  the  town, 
Their  best  but  bad,  —  made  light  of,  • —  beaten  down, 

For  ever  wearying,  wearying,  for  sleep. 

If  they  grow  hard,  go  wrong,  from  bad  to  badder, 
Why,  Parson  dear,  they  're  happier  being  blind  : 
They  get  no  thanks  for  being  good  and  kind,  — 

The  better  that  they  are,  they  feel  the  sadder  ! 

IV. 

Nineteen !  nineteen ! 

Only  nineteen,  and  yet  so  old,  so  old ;  — 
I  feel  like  fifty,  Parson,  —  I  have  been 

So  wicked,  I  suppose,  and  life  's  so  cold  ! 
Ah,  cruel  are  the  wind  and  rain  and  snow, 

And  I  've  been  out  for  years  among  them  all : 

I  scarce  remember  being  weak  and  small 
Like  Baby  there,  —  it  was  so  long  ago. 
It  does  not  seem  that  I  was  born,  but  woke 
One  day  in  a  dark  room 
High  up  among  the  smoke, 
And  trembled  at  the  roaring  of  the  gloom 
That  hung  around  me  [for  you  could  not  see 

The  people  from  our  window,  —  only  stone,  — 


A  LONDON  IDYL.  301 

Deep  walls,  black  pits,  and  lanes,  —  tho'  drearily 

You  heard  the  deep  streets  groan] ; 
And  I  was  all  alone,  and  looking  out, 

And  listening  in  a  dream  ; 
And  far  between  the  housetops  was  a  gleam 
Of  water  winding  silver-like  about. 
That  was  the  River.     It  look'd  cool  and  deep, 

And  as  I  watch'd,  I  felt  it  slipping  past, 
As  if  it  smoothly  swept  along  in  sleep, 

Gleaming  and  gliding  fast ; 
And  so  I  lean'cl  upon  the  sill  and  hearken'd 

To  the  strange  hum,  while  all  the  roofs  became 

Cover'd  with  thin  sick  flame, 
And  with  a  dusky  thrill  the  River  darken'd  ; 
Till  coldly,  coldly,  on  the  roofs  there  lighten'd 

A  pale  sad  silver  light  from  heaven  shed, 
And  with  a  sweep  that  made  me  sick  and  frighten'd 

The  yellow  Moon  roll'd  up  above  my  head ; 
And  down  below  me  groan'd  the  noise  and  trade, 
And  O  !  I  felt  alive,  and  was  afraid, 

And  cold,  and  hungry,  shrieking  out  for  bread. 

v. 
All  that  is  like  a  dream !     It  don't  seem  true!  — 

Father  was  dead  and  mother  left,  you  see, 

To  work  for  little  brother  Ned  and  me, 
And  up  among  the  roofs  we  grew  and  grew ; 
Lock'd  in  whole  days  high  up,  while  mother  char'd 

In  people's  houses  ;  only  now  and  then 
We  slipt  away  into  the  streets,  and  stared 

At  the  big  crowds  of  women  and  of  men. 
And  I  was  six,  but  Ned  was  only  three, 

And  thin  and  weak  and  weary ;  and  one  day, 

While  mother  was  away, 


302  A  LONDON  IDYL. 

He  put  his  little  head  upon  my  knee, 
And  went  to  sleep,  and  would  not  stir  a  limb, 

But  look'd  quite  strange  and  old, 
For  when  I  touch'd  him,  shook  him,  spoke  to  him, 

He  smiled  and  grew  so  cold  ; 
Then  I  was  frighten'd  and  cried  out,  and  none 

Could  hear  me,  and  I  sat  and  nursed  his  head, 
Watching  the  smoky  window  while  the  Sun 

Peep'd  in  upon  his  face  and  made  it  red ; 
And  I  began  to  cry  ;  —  till  mother  came, 
Knelt  down  and  scream'd,  and  named  the  good  GOD'S 
name, 

And  told  me  he  was  dead. 
Well,  when  she  put  his  night-gown  on,  and  weeping 

Put  him  among  the  rags  upon  his  bed, 
I  thought  that  brother  Ned  was  only  sleeping, 

And  took  his  little  hand  and  felt  no  fear ; 

But,  when  the  place  grew  gray  and  cold  and  drear, 
And  the  round  Moon  came  creeping,  creeping,  creeping, 

Over  the  roofs  and  put  a  silver  shade 

All  round  the  cold,  cold  bed  where  he  was  laid, 

I  sobb'd  and  was  afraid. 

VI. 

Ah,  yes,  it 's  like  a  dream  !  —  for  time  pass'd  by, 

And  I  went  out  into  the  smoky  air, 
Fruit-selling,  Parson,  —  trudging  wet  or  dry,  — 

Winter  and  summer,  —  weary,  cold,  and  bare  ; 
And  when  old  mother  laid  her  down  to  die, 
And  parish  buried  her,  I  did  not  cry, 

And  hardly  seem'd  to  care  ; 
I  was  too  hungry  and  too  dull ;  beside, 

The  roar  o'  streets  had  made  me  dry  as  dust : 
It  took  me  all  my  time,  howe'er  I  tried, 


A    LONDON  IDYL.  303 

To  keep  my  limbs  alive  and  earn  a  crust ; 

I  had  no  time  for  weeping, 
And  when  I  was  not  out  amid  the  roar, 
Or  standing  frozen  at  the  play-house  door, 

Why,  I  was  coil'd  upon  my  straw,  and  sleeping. 

Ah,  pence  were  hard  to  gain  ! 

Some  girls  were  pretty,  too,  but  I  was  plain : 

Fine  ladies  never  stopp'd  and  look'd  and  smiled, 
And  gave  me  money  for  my  face's  sake. 

That  made  me  hard  and  angry  when  a  child, 
But  now  it  thrills  my  heart  and  makes  it  ache  ! 

The  pretty  ones,  poor  things,  what  could  they  do, 
Fighting  and  starving  in  the  wicked  town, 
But  go  from  bad  to  badder,  —  down,  down,  down,  — 

Being  so  poor  and  yet  so  pretty  too  ? 

Never  could  bear  the  like  of  that,  —  ah  no  ! 

Better  have  starved  outright  than  gone  so  low  ! 

For  often  late  at  night 

A  face  that  I  had  known  when  mild  and  meek 
Pass'd  by  with  fearful  smile  and  painted  cheek, 

Gleam'd  in  the  gas,  and  faded  out  of  sight. 

VII. 

But  I  've  no  call  to  boast.     I  might  have  been 
As  wicked,  Parson  dear,  in  my  distress, 

But  for  your  friend,  —  you  know  the  one  I  mean  ?  — 
The  tall  pale  lady  in  the  mourning  dress. 

Though  we  were  cold  at  first,  that  wore  away,  — 
She  was  so  mild  and  young, 
And  had  so  soft  a  tongue, 

And  eyes  to  sweeten  what  she  loved  to  say. 

She  never  seem'd  to  scorn  one,  no,  not  she, 

And  (what  was  best)  she  seemed  as  sad  as  me  ! 

Not  one  of  those  that  make  a  girl  feel  base, 


304  A  LONDON  IDYL. 

And  call  her  names,  and  talk  of  her  disgrace, 
And  frighten  one  with  thoughts  of  flaming  Hell 

And  fierce  LORD  GOD  with  black  and  angry  brow, 
But  soft  and  mild,  and  sensible  as  well, 

And  O  I  loved  her,  and  I  love  her  now. 
She  did  me  good  for  many  and  many  a  day,  — 

More  good  than  pence  could  ever  do,  I  swear, 

For  she  was  poor,  with  little  pence  to  spare,  — 
Learn'd  me  to  read  and  quit  low  words,  —  and  pray. 
And,  Parson,  tho'  I  never  understood 
How  such  a  life  as  mine  was  meant  for  good, 

And  could  not  understand 
How  one  she  said  was  wicked,  ever  could 

Go  to  your  better  land 

Among  a  troop  so  grand, 
I  liked  to  hear  her  talk  of  such  a  place, 

And  thought  of  all  the  angels  she  was  best, 
Because  her  soft  voice  soothed  me,  and  her  face 

Made  my  words  gentle,  put  my  heart  at  rest. 

VIII. 

Ah  !  sir,  't  was  very  lonesome.     Night  and  day, 

Save  when  the  sweet  Miss  came,  I  was  alone ; 

Moved  on  and  hunted  thro'  the  streets  of  stone, 
And  ev'n  in  dreams  afraid  to  rest  or  stay. 
Then,  other  girls  had  lads  to  work  and  strive  for, 

I  envied  them,  and  did  not  know  't  was  wrong, 

And  often,  very  often,  used  to  long 
For  some  one  I  could  like  and  keep  alive  for. 
Marry  ?     Not  they  ! 

They  can't  afford  to  be  so  good,  you  know ; 
But  many  of  them,  tho'  they  step  astray, 

Indeed  don't  mean  to- sin  so  much,  or  go 
Against  what 's  decent.     Only  't  is  their  way. 


A   LONDON  IDYL.  305 

And  many  might  do  worse  than  that,  may  be, 
If  they  had  ne'er  a  one  to  fill  a  thought,  — 

It  sounds  half  wicked,  but  poor  girls  like  me 
Must  sin  a  little,  to  be  good  in  aught. 

IX. 

So  I  was  glad  when  I  began  to  see 

That  costermongering  Joe  had  fancied  me  ; 

And  when,  one  night,  he  took  me  to  the  play 

Over  on  Surrey  side,  and  offer'd  fair, 

That  we  should  take  a  little  room  and  share 
Our  earnings,  why,  I  could  not  answer  "  nay  !  " 
And  that 's  a  year  ago ;  and  tho'  I  'm  bad, 

I  've  been  as  true  to  Joe  as  girl  could  be  ; 
I  don't  complain  a  bit  of  Joe,  dear  lad, 

Joe  never,  never  meant  but  well ;  and  we 
Have  had  as  fresh  and  fair  a  time,  I  think, 

As  one  could  hope,  since  we  are  both  so  low  : 

Joe  likes  me,  never  gave  me  push  or  blow, 
When  sober :  only,  he  was  wild  in  drink. 
But  then,  we  don't  mind  beating  when  a  man 

Is  angry,  if  he  likes  us  and  keeps  straight, 
Works  for  his  bread  and  does  the  best  he  can ;  — 

'T  is  being  left  and  slighted  that  we  hate. 

x. 

And  so  the  Baby 's  come,  and  I  shall  die ! 

And  tho'  't  is  hard  to  leave  poor  Baby  here, 

Where  folk  will  think  him  bad,  and  all 's  so  drear, 
The  great  LORD  GOD  knows  better  far  than  I. 

Ah,  don't !  —  't  is  kindly,  but  it  pains  me  so  ! 

You  say  I  'm  wicked,  and  I  want  to  go  ! 
"  GOD'S  kingdom,"  Parson,  dear  ?     Ah  nay,  ah  nay  ! 

That  must  be  like  the  country,  —  which  I  fear  : 


306  A   LONDON  IDYL. 

I  saw  the  country  once,  one  summer  day, 
And  I  would  rather  die  in  London  here. 


XI. 

For  I  was  sick  of  hunger,  cold,  and  strife, 

And  took  a  sudden  fancy  in  my  head 

To  try  the  country,  and  to  earn  my  bread 
Out  among  fields,  where,  I  had  heard,  one's  life 
Was  easier  and  brighter.     So,  that  day, 
I  took  my  basket  up  and  stole  away, 
Early  at  morning.     As  I  went  along, 

Trembling  and  loath  to  leave  the  busy  place, 
I  felt  that  I  was  doing  something  wrong, 

And  fear'd  to  look  policemen  in  the  face. 
And  all  was  dim  :  the  streets  were  gray  and  wet 

After  a  rainy  night :  and  all  was  still ; 

I  held  my  shawl  around  me  with  a  chill. 
And  dropt  my  eyes  from  every  face  I  met ; 
Until  the  streets  began  to  fade,  the  road 

Grew  fresh  and  clean  and  wide, 
Fine  houses  where  the  gentlefolk  abode, 

And  gardens  full  of  flowers,  on  every  side : 
That  made  me  walk  the  quicker,  —  on,  on,  on,  — 

As  if  I  were  asleep  with  half-shut  eyes, 

And  all  at  once  I  saw  to  my  surprise 
The  houses  of  the  gentlefolk  were  gone, 
And  I  was  standing  still, 
Shading  my  face,  upon  a  high  green  hill, 

And  the  bright  sun  was  blazing, 
And  all  the  blue  above  me  seem'd  to  melt 

To  burning  flashing  gold,  while  I  was  gazing 
On  the  great  smoky  cloud  where  I  had  dwelt. 


A   LONDON  IDYL.  307 

XII. 

1 11  ne'er  forget  that  day.     All  was  so  bright 

And  strange.     Upon  the  grass  around  my  feet 
The  rain  had  hung  a  million  drops  of  light ; 

The  air,  too,  was  so  clear  and  warm  and  sweet 
It  seem'd  a  sin  to  breathe  it.     All  around 

Were  hills  and  fields  and  trees  that  trembled  thro' 

A  burning  blazing  fire  of  gold  and  blue, 
And  there  was  not  a  sound, 

Save  a  bird  singing,  singing,  and  a  kind 
Of  sighing  from  the  grass  upon  the  ground. 

I  turn'd  away,  like  one  grown  deaf  and  blind. 
Then,  with  my  heavy  hand  upon  my  chest, 

Because  the  bright  air  pain'd  me,  trembling,  sighing, 
I  stole  into  a  dewy  field  to  rest, 

And  O  the  green  green  grass  where  I  was  lying 
Was  fresh  and  living,  —  and  the  bird  sang  loud, 
Out  of  a  golden  cloud,  — 

And  I  was  looking  up  at  him  and  crying ! 

XIII. 

The  hours  they  slipt  away  \.  and  by  and  by 
The  sun  grew  red,  big  shadows  fill'd  the  sky, 

The  air  grew  damp  with  dew, 
And  the  dark  night  was  coming  down,  I  knew. 
Well,  I  was  more  afraid  than  ever  then, 

And  felt  that  I  should  die  in  such  a  place  ;  — 

So  back  to  London  town  I  turn'd  my  face, 
And  crept  into  the  great  black  streets,  again  ; 
And  when  I  breathed  the  smoke  and  heard  the  roar, 

Why,  I  was  better,  for  in  London  here 

My  heart  was  busy,  and  I  felt  no  fear. 
I  never  saw  the  country  any  more. 
And  I  have  stay'd  in  London  well  or  ill, 


308  A  LONDON  IDYL. 

I  dared  not  stay  out  yonder  if  I  could, 

For  one  feels  dead,  and  all  looks  pure  and  good,  — 

I  could  not  bear  a  life  so  bright  and  still. 

All  that  I  want  is  sleep, 

Under  the  flags  and  stones,  so  deep,  so  deep  ! 

GOD  won't  be  hard  on  one  so  mean,  but  He 
Perhaps  will  let  a  tired  girl  slumber  sound 
There  in  the  deep  cool  darkness  underground ; 

And  I  shall  waken  up  in  time,  may  be, 

Better  and  stronger,  not  afraid  to  see 

The  great  still  Light  that  folds  Him  round  and  round  ! 

XIV. 

See  !  there  's  a  bit  of  sunshine  thro'  the  pane, — 

How  cool  and  moist  it  looks  amid  the  rain ! 

I  like  to  hear  the  splashing  of  the  drops 

On  the  house  tops, 

And  the  loud  humming  of  the  folk  that  go 

Along  the  streets  below ! 

I  like  the  smoke  and  roar,  —  I  am  so  bad,  — 

They  make  a  low  one  hard  and  still  her  cares  .  .  . 

There  's  Joe  !     I  hear  his  foot  upon  the  stairs  !  — 
He  must  be  wet,  poor  lad ! 
He  will  be  angry,  like  enough,  to. find 

Another  little  life  to  clothe  and  keep, 
But  show  him  Baby,  Parson,  —  speak  him  kind, — 

And  tell  him  Doctor  thinks  I  'm  going  to  sleep. 
A  hard  hard  life  is  his,  —  he  need  be  strong 
And  rough,  to  earn  his  bread  and  get  along;  — 
I  think  he  will  be  sorry  when  I  go, 

And  leave  the  little  one  and  him  behind.  •.* 

I  hope  he  '11  see  another  to  his  mind 
To  keep  him  straight  and  tidy.     Poor  old  Joe  ! 


LANGLEY    LANE. 

A     LOVE     POEM. 

T  N  all  the  land,  range  up,  range  down, 

-L     Is  there  ever  a  place  so  pleasant  and  sweet, 

As  Langley  Lane  in  London  town, 

Just  out  of  the  bustle  of  square  and  street  ? 
Little  white  cottages  all  in  a  row, 
Gardens  where  bachelors'-buttons  grow, 

Swallows'  nests  in  roof  and  wall, . 
And  up  above  the  still  blue  sky 
Where  the  woolly  white  clouds  go  sailing  by, — 

I  seem  to  be  able  to  see  it  all ! 

For  now,  in  summer,  I  take  my  chair, 

And  sit  outside  in  the  sun,  and  hear 
The  distant  murmur  of  street  and  square, 

And  the  swallows  and  sparrows  chirping  near ; 
And  Fanny,  who  lives  just  over  the  way, 
Comes  running  many  a  time  each  .day 

With  her  little  hand's  touch  so  warm  and  kind, 
And  I  smile  and  talk,  with  the  sun  on  my  cheek, 
And  the  little  live  hand  seems  to  stir  and  speak,  — 

For  Fanny  is  dumb  and  I  am  blind. 

Fann^is  sweet  thirteen,  and  she 

Has  fine  black  ringlets  and  dark  eyes  clear, 
And  I  am  older  by  summers  three,  — 

Why  should  we  hold  one  another  so  dear  ? 


310  L ANGLE  Y  LANE. 

Because  she  cannot  utter  a  word, 
Nor  hear  the  music  of  bee  or  bird, 

The  water-cart's  splash  or  the  milkman's  call ! 
Because  I  have  never  seen  the  sky, 
Nor  the  little  singers  that  hum  and  fly,  — 

Yet  know  she  is  gazing  upon  them  all ! 

For  the  sun  is  shining,  the  swallows  fly, 

The  bees  and  the  blue-flies  murmur  low, 
And  I  hear  the  water-cart  go  by, 

With  its  cool  splash-splash  down  the  dusty  row 
And  the  little  one  close  at  my  side  perceives 
Mine  eyes  upraised  to  the  cottage  eaves, 

Where  birds  are  chirping  in  summer  shine, 
And  I  hear,  though  I  cannot  look,  and  she, 
Though  she  cannot  hear,  can  the  singers  see,  — 

And  the  little  soft  fingers  flutter  in  mine  ! 

Hath  not  the  dear  little  hand  a  tongue, 

When  it  stirs  on  my  palm  for  the  love  of  me  ? 
Do  I  not  know  she  is  pretty  and  young  ? 

Hath  not  my  soul  an  eye  to  see  ?  — 
'T  is  pleasure  to  make  one's  bosom  stir, 
To  wonder  how  things  appear  to  her, 

That  I  only  hear  as  they  pass  around  ; 
And  as  long  as  we  sit  in  the  music  and  light, 
She  is  happy  to  keep  God's  sight, 

And  /  am  happy  to  keep  God's  sound. 

Why,  I  know  her  face,  though  I  am  blind,  — 

I  made  it  of  music  long  ago  : 
Strange  large  eyes  and  dark  hair  twined 

Round  the  pensive  light  of  a  brow  of  snow ; 
And  when  I  sit  by  my  little  one, 


LANG  LEY  LANE.  311 

And  hold  her  hand  and  talk  in  the  sun, 
And  hear  the  music  that  haunts  the  place, 

I  know  she  is  raising  her  eyes  to  me, 
•  And  guessing  how  gentle  my  voice  must  be, 
And  seeing  the  music  upon  my  face. 

Though,  if  ever  the  Lord  should  grant  me  a  prayer, 

(I  know  the  fancy  is  only  vain,) 
I  should  pray ;  just  once,  when  the  weather  is  fair, 

To  see  little  Fanny  and  Langley  Lane ; 
Though  Fanny,  perhaps,  would  pray  to  hear 
The  voice  of  the  friend  that  she  holds  so  dear, 

The  song  of  the  birds,  the  hum  of  the  street,  — 
It  is  better  to  be  as  we  have  been,  — 
Each  keeping  up  something,  unheard,  unseen, 

To  make  God's  heaven  more  strange  and  sweet ! 

Ah  !  life  is  pleasant  in  Langley  Lane  ! 

There  is  always  something  sweet  to  hear  ! 
Chirping  of  birds  or  patter  of  rain  ! 

And  Fanny,  my  little  one,  always  near ! 
And  though  I  am  weakly  and  can't  live  long, 
And  Fanny  my  darling  is  far  from  strong, 

And  though  we  can  never  married  be,  — 
What  then  ?  —  since  we  hold  one  another  so  dear, 
For  the  sake  of  the  pleasure  one  cannot  hear, 

And  the  pleasure  that  only  one  can  see  ? 


THE     END. 


Cambridge  :  Stereotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


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